A Skirt for Sunday Evening
by sbj
Summary: yeah, it's another butch/buttercup story. kinda romantic, not really. more like a look at buttercup's college character. . . at least for now. rated b/c language and it might get into heavy stuff later on
1. Part I

well wouldja lookit that! i've updated something!  
  
okay, it's not a continuation of "being moody" (i'm working on it! seriously!) but it popped into my head after reading a college story. so yeah. it's a college story involving. . . take a guess? the little green people.   
  
no, those are aliens, not people. i meant buttercup and butch. but i guess they're not really people either. they're 22, b/c it wouldn't make sense for 5 year olds to be going to college and experiencing angsty-lack-of-love-life related problems.  
  
and that brings me to my next point. it's a semi-romance (buh, no kidding?!) but isn't very romantical at the moment. this is just the first part, and it focuses mainly on establishing buttercup's character and pretty much just introduces us to the story. the good stuff doesn't come until i post the stuff i haven't written yet ^^;  
  
told from buttercup's pov, as will the second part. i'm not gonna split into doing something from butch's pov b/c his character's supposed to remain very VERY ambiguous.  
  
uh, please review! more authors'notes at the end ¬ ¬ don't kill me. . . .   
  
and i love the title!  
  
-jen  
  
  
  
*A Skirt for Sunday Evening*  
~songbirdjen~  
  
***  
  
Even now it is unfathomable to me why any girl in her right mind would care to shop in places as atrocious as the mall.   
  
You'd have thought I would've outgrown my contempt for the wretched place at the ripe age of 20+. But alas, here I am at 22 and have yet to disprove my former teenage self by admitting the mall is a decent place. Because, quite frankly, it isn't. There's just something about it too. . . "mall-y" for me. The entire acreage of it reeks of hairspray, food court grease, and allergy-inducing body mist that's supposed to make you smell like a basket of random produce. Honestly. Who has ever actually eaten honeysuckle kiwi? Does that flavor--or scent, rather--even exist? I'll bet it does here.  
  
So yeah. I hate the place. I'd probably sooner be shoved into a bank vault with about five minutes of oxygen left and thirty flesh-craved weasels to keep at bay.  
  
But if I hate the place so much, then what the hell am I doing here?  
  
. . . Good question.  
  
I've only been here roughly three minutes and already I'm getting dizzy. If the aerosol or grease hanging in the air doesn't choke me first, I know I'll suffocate on the hawaiian-cinnamon-olive tea-cranberry scent seeping into my pores. I'll end up being a martyr for the minority of sensible women worldwide.  
  
Sometimes I think I should've been born a boy. And it's pretty much basically what I am, minus the physical aspect (it's crazy. Genetics happened to bless me with larger than average breasts, things I would gladly rid myself of if I could without doing bodily harm to myself). So here I am, a boy trapped in a girl's body, with a chest size every woman (except me) wants. Seriously. I talk about it sometimes with Butch, BUTCH of all people, to which he always responds, with an impish grin on his face, "So does that mean you prefer women over men?"  
  
In turn, I firmly reply, "NO."  
  
Eventually we both reached the conclusion that I would make a GREAT guy. A great gay guy.  
  
I don't know where the whole "I hate men" thing got started. I don't. I hate women who voluntarily submit themselves to the will of the male gender. I swear, every woman's main goal in life is to  
  
a)go to the mall  
b)buy clothes at the mall  
c)wear clothes from the mall  
d)attract members of the opposite sex with said clothes from mall  
e)marry member of opposite sex in a dress they get from a place like a mall only smaller and more expensive, and  
f)live life at home doing little else except cooking, cleaning, and making babies.  
  
Wow. Can we say, meaningless existence? Men suck, it's true, but women don't do much to help. After years of standing around watching females stumble blindly in a mindless stupor, it's easy for me to say I prefer the company of men. I'm basically one of the guys: just smarter. And attracted to them. Yeah.  
  
I've never had a best female friend. Apparently I'm supposed to. But I don't. Girls used to look at me and say, "Weird," when they heard it. I had no problem telling them that maybe they were probably too stupid to try and be more polite.   
  
When I told Butch this he said he wasn't very surprised I'd never had a best female friend. Girls tend to not like being told they're complete idiots.  
  
"What, so guys aren't idiots?" Butch asked after i offhandedly made the comment the other night in our dorm.  
  
"No, men are idiots too. They're just more willing to accept it," I'd stated matter-of-factly.  
  
Butch made his confused face then, a look he knew I found incredibly adorable because I'd told him so. Nowadays I think that was one of the stupidest mistakes I'd made in my life.  
  
"You know you shouldn't try to make me think too much after midnight," he whined, pursing his lips and cocking his head.  
  
I snorted. "As if you think during the day."  
  
He dropped the confused look and put on his "Shut up dumbass" face. I found this expression cute too. I just hadn't told him yet.  
  
"Someone's asking for it."  
  
I saw it coming miles away. "Oh shit!" I cried out as I scrambled to my feet and dived for the door.  
  
I obviously hadn't scrambled fast enough because he hooked me around the belt loops on my jeans and brought us both crashing down to the floor, promptly digging his knuckles into my ribs.  
  
He knows I'm extremely ticklish there.  
  
I immediately started cackling maniacally until tears came into my eyes and vainly tried to shove him off. This didn't get me anywhere fast, and I finally pressed my feet against his stomach and managed to kick him off. Sides splitting, I shot throught the open window like a sex-starved teenage boy who had just spotted Britney Spears winking at him from the opposite street.  
  
"Hey!" Butch hollered as he took flight too. "I thought we agreed NOT to use our powers on campus!"  
  
I turned around and made a slightly rude gesture involving my right hand and chin.  
  
For several minutes it went like that. We zoomed past the trees and buildings, sometimes skimming the sky, other times the grass, the wind whistling as we accelerated and decelerated.   
  
Neither of us admitted it felt as if we were acting like kids again, but we both knew what happened next. I'd finally slow down and Butch would tackle me around the waist, and together we'd spiral down towards the Earth. We'd lay there trying to catch our breath, chests heaving with exhaustion, sweat pouring off our skin and dripping off our hair. Then he'd finally roll over on top of me, still exhausted, and smirk. "I win."  
  
Only this time he didn't say that. He propped himself on his elbows and leaned over my face. "I think I deserve top bunk tonight." He still hadn't caught his breath.  
  
I didn't want to argue. I hadn't caught mine either. "Knock yourself out."  
  
He smiled. It was his genuine smile, too, a smile he reserved specifically for me. Not even his girlfriend knows about his genuine smile. It's a secret only we share.  
  
I like that word. "We."  
  
"You're such a doll," he cooed, and leant over to kiss my forehead, sweat and all. Then he took off back in the direction of our dorm, leaving me with my back to the dirt and my face to the stars and my heart drumming like crazy for no particular reason at all.  
  
***  
  
My heart's drumming like crazy now, too, but that's out of general fear for my life.  
  
Yes, me. Buttercup. I am scared. Scared I will be overtaken by this army of teenybopper 12 year olds and be dealt my untimely death. . . well, maybe not really, but quite truthfully, my feelings for the mall haven't changed in the past minute.  
  
For some odd reason, though, I must admit it was feelings that drove me to come here in the first place. Ask me what feelings and I'll draw a blank. I just don't know.  
  
At this moment I've chosen to enter one of the heathen department stores and am now being filled with an immediate sense of disgust. The stereos are blaring some horrid cracker ghetto music while scantily clad young women mingle around even more scant scraps of fabric I'm assuming are articles of clothing. I'm not religious, but I'm praying to some ethereal being right now asking why he/she/it deigned it necessary to give crazy girls like the ones here "free time." They're wasting it anyway.  
  
Evidently I've been standing here too long, because now all eyes are on me critically assessing my college sweatshirt, torn jeans, and oversized schoolbag. I smile sardonically at the disapproving faces, proudly accepting the label they're basically handing me right now: freak.  
  
I feel so honored.  
  
And did I mention I don't wear makeup?  
  
Don't that beat all.  
  
***  
  
I wander throughout the store, picking disinterestedly at random clothes, if that's the proper name of whatever the hell I'm looking at. People are generally avoiding me, which I CERTAINLY don't mind. In fact, I favor it.  
  
I emerge from yet another rack of clothing, strangely satisfied that I have found nothing of interest to me. Too bright. Apparently this store totally dismissed the dark side of the spectrum when picking their colors. Candy apple reds and electric yellows pretty much dominate the manufactured goods they have to offer.  
  
One of the store clerks has bravely drawn the short straw and is making her way toward me, smiling nervously. I put on my sunglasses to avoid being blinded by her unnaturally white teeth.   
  
"Um, hi. May I help you?" she asks politely. Almost TOO politely. I'd hate being a store clerk. Being polite to others just isn't my forte.  
  
I smile and open my mouth to reply when something catches my eye. I blink and remove my shades to make sure I'm not hallucinating.  
  
I'm not.  
  
Very indistinctly, hidden in the folds of some garish orange top, I can make out a black article of clothing.  
  
I walk past the confused store clerk and reach the sales rack, reinforcing my assurance that the black thing does, in fact, exist.  
  
Lifting the piece--more like rescuing it, actually--I scowl.  
  
A skirt.  
  
Go figure.  
  
And I thought there would've been hope yet.  
  
I'm just about to place it back in its designated area when the nervous smiley store clerk graciously steps in. NO store clerk can resist the profit of a sale. "That's a lovely piece," she explains, and proceeds to go into the details of its craftsmanship and tailoring, none of which I'm interested in, but feign amusement nonetheless.  
  
"Would you like to try it on?"  
  
I almost burst out laughing. It'll be a cold day in hell before you put me in something with one opening for BOTH legs.  
  
"Actually--" I start to protest, but she's already taken my elbow and leading me to the fitting rooms. I guess she thinks the sooner I get out of here the better.  
  
Heh. I smile. I'm probably bad for business.  
  
***  
  
"That skirt looks quite stunning on you," smiley store clerk says. I manage a grin and glare darkly at my reflection in the mirror.  
  
The skirt's not bad, as far as skirts go. It stops at a modest length above my knees with slits about an inch from the hem. The material stretches, making it easy for me to move, and in any other case I'd find it comfy.  
  
But a skirt's a skirt.  
  
Smiley store clerk is now obsessed with the idea of finding me matching shoes, since my grubby sneakers aren't very flattering.  
  
"You really have very nice legs for it," she comments before disappearing into the nether regions of the store for those shoes. A guy, probably someone's boyfriend, must think so too, since he hasn't taken his eyes off the lower portion of my body since I stepped out to inspect myself in the mirrored wall. I ignore him.  
  
'What am I doing here?' I wonder for the 'n'th time. Butch would probably be curious too.   
  
"So unlike you," he'd purr, pinching my cheek.  
  
I almost wish he was here so we could point and laugh at random people like we always do at the mall. We could make some crack about the overpriced merchandise and have him walk around in the lingerie department while I rummage through a bin of boxers.  
  
We don't come to the mall often, but when we do, we make it count.  
  
I sigh. I'll miss him over the summer.  
  
***  
  
"I'm flying to Long Island for the summer with Kendall," he'd admitted last night after our high-speed chase and we were lying in bed.  
  
I immediately felt lonelier. "Oh." Kendall. That's his girlfriend.  
  
"I'm not sure how long I'll stay." His voice wafted down to the bottom bunk where I was lying.  
  
"Take your time."  
  
His head appeared upside down at the foot of the bed. "What about you?"  
  
I shrugged, even though he probably couldn't see me. "Meh."  
  
"I'll stay if you want me to."  
  
He has really bright green eyes. They're very pretty in the dark. "You do what you want."  
  
He blinked a few times. "Why don't we do something this Sunday?" Neither of us went to church.  
  
I shrugged again. "If you like."  
  
Now his eyes rolled. "Quite the decision maker, aren't we?"  
  
"Only with you."  
  
He stuck his tongue out at me and rolled back onto his bunk. The springs above me squeaked faintly. "Sunday it is, then." He sighed, settling into sleep.  
  
I only stared past the springs, trying to see beyond them.  
  
***  
  
Looking down at my faded Nikes, I can't help but wonder if he would think I have pretty legs, the way I think he has pretty eyes.  
  
***  
  
Outside my dorm I stuff my purchases into my schoolbag, with little regard for wrinkling the skirt or scuffing the shoes despite their hefty price tag. I feel like an idiot. I spend roughly $20 a year on clothing. Literally. A skirt ON SALE for $31 isn't a sale; it's highway robbery. The shoes I picked up at the discount outlet on the way home were at least a moderate price. I just couldn't bring myself to spend another $40 on the boots smiley store clerk attempted to pawn off on me.  
  
I'm just zipping my pack up when the door flies open and Butch nearly collides headfirst into me. He barely touches me, but my pathetic sense of balance prompts me to stumble backwards and land rather unceremoniously on my butt.  
  
"You twit," I grumble as he laughs and pulls me up. "Where's the fire, anyway?"  
  
He licks one of his hands and wraps his other arm around my waist, making a sizzling sound as he lightly touches my rear. "I just put it out." Insert grin and cock of head.  
  
Half-repulsed, I shove him back into the dorm, sidestepping him into the entryway. "Keep your hands OFF my ass, thank you."  
  
Shrug. "If you say so." He steps up and kicks it instead.  
  
Chain reaction ensues.  
  
I whirl my pack toward him, aiming for his head. Instead he grabs it with his hands and yanks it out of mine. He starts hopping backwards out of my reach. "What DO we have here?" he wonders, starting to unzip the pocket. "Presents for me?"  
  
In turn I tackle him, somehow managing to wrest it out of his grasp after a minor scruffle, and childishly curl my body around it, hugging it to my chest and assuming the fetal position.  
  
"No," I pout stubbornly and jut out my lower lip.  
  
Unimpressed, he picks me up by the waist, hugging my back to his chest and lifting me off the ground as I kick and yell rude things at him. Each time I speak the comments get ruder and ruder, and as they do so he starts laughing.  
  
"Come on, Buttercup." His breath is cool on my skin. "Aren't you my buddy?"  
  
He drops me on the ground and turns me to face him. I wrinkle my face. That's the second time I've fallen on my butt today, and it's his fault for both. No way in hell I'm forgiving him.  
  
He puts on his confused face.  
  
I melt. Thus, I relent. Slightly. "I will be if you treat me to an ice cream."  
  
Now HE wrinkles his face. "$3 for your friendship. What a gyp." He peers curiously at my bag. "Do I get to see what's in there?"  
  
Pft. Hell no. "Hell no."  
  
"Then no deal." He straightens and starts for the door, shoving his hands in his pockets.  
  
Not wanting to get up I scoot toward the closet on my butt to hide my stuff.   
  
All of a sudden he tackles me again, knocking the bag out of my hands and under the bunk bed. Another minor scuffle ensues, me cursing, him laughing. In the end he grinds his knuckles into my ribs, much like last night, and I start shrieking with laughter. "You CHEAT!" I manage to growl at him, and attempt to swing at his jaw, but he grabs my hand and pins me to the floor, and we end up in a rather. . . less than innocent position.  
  
Being an extreme prude about my body, I start blushing, only adding to the humiliation. He leans forward, crushing my chest against his, and that certainly doesn't help.  
  
"Your friendship for your privacy," he crows.  
  
I almost mutter "What privacy" but I can't seem to breathe right at the moment. It feels as if I"m suffocating. So I only nod.  
  
He smiles the genuine smile I love so much and hops to his feet. "You really ARE a doll," he says as he heads for the door again. I continue to lie on the floor, watching him leave. He turns. "Well? You want ice cream or not?"  
  
I lift my head and squint at him.  
  
Smirk. "I'll wait in the hall." And he walks out, shutting the door behind him.  
  
I roll over onto my stomach, facing the bunk bed. My pack lies under there, quiet and still.   
  
"Idiot," I mumble.   
  
I don't know who I'm talking to.  
  
***  
  
Final exams are officially over. Term papers are a thing of the past. In a few days summer will officially start. In a few days Butch and Kendall will officially leave. In a few days I will officially be bored and lonely.  
  
We while away the few days we have left packing for his trip. Thrilling, I know. But I'll take what I can get.  
  
"You don't REALLY need to help," he says Saturday morning with the TV blasting cartoons and the two of us stuffing his clothes into his suitcase, packed and repacked several times already. "I mean, I'm SURE I'll have enough clothes to tide me over."  
  
I stood up straight, buckling the latches. "Yeah, but I wonder how good you're gonna be at keeping them on." I looked hastily at him for a reaction. He only grins. Sometimes it amazes me that he's still a virgin. At least with me you can visibly tell. My prudishness gives me away.  
  
"You're not the only one," he says mysteriously. "We still on for tomorrow?"  
  
"Huh?"  
  
He hefts the suitcase onto the floor easily. "Tomorrow's Sunday. Our date." Taking long strides toward the front door, he swings the luggage back and forth, bringing it dangerously close to the walls.   
  
"If you dare make a dent in the walls, Butch. . . " I threaten. Naturally he pays no attention to me.  
  
"What do you wanna do?"  
  
"Do what?"  
  
"Tomorrow." He tosses his stuff onto the floor where it emits a heavy thud. I wince at the noise, wondering what the folks downstairs must think we're doing.   
  
I shrug. "Up to you."  
  
"You know better than to leave the decisions up to me."  
  
"Yeah. I do."  
  
His eyes brightened mischievously. "So does that mean you trust me?"  
  
My head shakes. "No."  
  
He just rolls his eyes and sighs. Funny how it makes me want to laugh and cry at the same time.  
  
***  
  
Two a.m. Sunday morning. Butch is asleep. I pull out my pack from under his bunk, careful not to wake him. It's been under there for roughly a week now, and I had totally forgotten about it until two minutes ago as I lay on the top bunk listening to Butch's soft breathing. As I reach for my bag his arm flops over the side, stroking my cheek as I shift to stand. That spot on my face tingles and burns.   
  
I float back up to the top bunk and quitely unzip the bag. The skirt topples into my lap, looking brand new and suspiciously unwrinkled. Good. That saves me an ironing job.  
  
I smooth out the fabric and tug out the shoes too, plain black boot-ish things with little-to-no heel. God forbid I ever stick my feet into things higher than an inch off the ground.  
  
'As if it matters what you wear,' a little voice inside my head says. 'As if something will change. As if anything will happen.'  
  
"Nothing will happen," I murmur softly as I gently refold the skirt and place it back in my bag, hanging it on the bunk bed post. The shoes I place by my pillow on the bed itself. "So why not?"  
  
Not having an answer to give myself, I lie down, inhaling the scent of leather from the shoes by my head and listening to the dead air, save for Butch's breathing.  
  
*end of part I*  
  
a/n: bwah, i feel evil :) i must get to work on the second part. i'm really proud of this so far, i haven't really tried my hand at non-vignette stories where the character just talks a lot and that's the story. i like the mall scene and end of their scuffle scene ^^ prom was last night and i just kept thinking about how i was gonna continue this while i was dancing and drinking punch and taking pictures *whee! no i'm not drunk, and i wasn't last night either ¬ ¬. . . * for those of you here for the romance. . . um, maybe next chapter?   
  
you don't know what i'm gonna do with the story! hahaha! fate is in my control! will butch leave with kendall? will he stay with buttercup? will BUTTERCUP leave with kendall *that's a whole other genre O_o*?! will smiley store clerk, upset at her minimum wage salary and tightly fitting clerk-y outfit go crazy and deal doom upon the mall with the allergy-inducing freesia-strawberry-beehive honey body lotion and mist? (say, that actually wouldn't be a bad ending O_o) and for those of you who love the mall, i love it too (when you can get stuff for under $10), but i imagine buttercup wouldn't, haha. um. . . 's it! hold out for next part, b/c that'll be out sooner than the "being moody" series *sorry!*   
  
and if you have an account here and really really wanna know when i come out with stuff, just put me on author alert. mine's turned on too, but 2/3 of the people i have on it don't have theirs on, which makes me all sad-like ;_;  
  
wai, i go now. 


	2. Part II

um, yeah. for reasons i won't go into right now i'm posting the second part already b/c i don't know how much i'm gonna work on the third part for now. uh. . . semi-romantic tension, i suppose? mainly. . . yeah, never mind, it's just supposed to be funny. :D  
  
and going over the first part i realized i missed a tense change ¬ ¬. . . and forgot a disclaimer O_O don't sue me craig! or cartoon network! the ppg DON'T belong to me. but a small piece of south africa does ;)  
  
and to hairy gregory: yeah i know they wear skirts in the show, sorry ^^; but for some girls (including me) we all go through a stage where we think "skirt? HAY-ELL NAW!" (sorry. it's the texas accent speaking.) so i'm assuming buttercup outgrew the dresses sometime late. . . elementary and reverted to jeans and never looked back. well, until now.  
  
and i didn't explain how the rrb came back. . . uh, how about "there IS such a thing as too much sex, drugs, & rock and roll?"   
  
yeah. didn't make sense, did it? wasn't supposed to.  
  
ok. that's it. please review! love addressing your feedback!  
  
-jen  
  
  
  
  
*A Skirt for Sunday Evening* pt.II  
~-songbirdjen~  
  
  
  
"Geez, Buttercup! What the hell are you doing in there?!"  
  
"What the hell do you THINK I'm doing?" I snarl at the shut door, hoping he can't hear the quaver in my voice. 'You should just change out of this right now, Buttercup,' I think to myself as I turn and inspect myself in the mirror. I feel so SHALLOW doing this. 'Just grab a pair of good ol' comfy jeans and toss this. . . thing in the garbage on your way out the door. He'll never need to know, never have to hold it against you, never--"  
  
Butch incidentally chooses this time to once again politely ask if I need assistance.  
  
BAMBAMBAM! "What'd you do, Buttercup, fall in?!"  
  
"SHADDUP!" My hand flies to the zipper at the base of my spine and I move to take it off when Butch barges through the door.  
  
"Well, if that wasn't an invitation--" he starts, a smile on his face, then abruptly stops, his expression dropping. I cringe, my hand still at the zipper, ready to pull it down, only I CAN'T now. Unless I want to just pile on the humiliation and start doing a striptease for him.  
  
His mouth is slightly parted, his eyes wide, and it seems as if all time has stopped. Neither of us moves for what feels like ages, but I guess it's only a second, seeing as how time supposedly ceased to exist for a few brief moments. Being the breaker of awkward situations that he is, Butch quickly recovers from his initial shock.  
  
"Oh--my--GOD," he says, face breaking into a grin and eyes blinking several times to make sure he's not hallucinating. He circles me and shakes his head disbelievingly, chuckling. My hands are still on the zipper. "This. . . dude. . . but. . . DUDE!" His eyes fly up from the skirt to my face. "You have GOT to be kidding me! How long has THIS skeleton been in your closet?!"  
  
"Under the bed, actually, and that's where it's going right now, if you're done gawking," I snap at him and start to unzip it, regardless if he's in here or not.  
  
His arms fly around me and stop my hands from going further. "No no no no no. . . " he protests darkly, an evil grin developing on his face. One of his hands rests on my hip and the other slowly guides my hand to pull the zipper back up as I only stand there, staring at him like an idiot and furiously fighting a blush. "I like this." He nods slowly, still smiling as he releases me. My arms drop to my sides.  
  
He shakes his head again. "I've got to say, though. . . I mean, this is just TOO GREAT. . . what a going-away gift THIS is! Buttercup. . . in a SKIRT. . . my GOD!" His eyes widen again. "What have YOU been smoking?"  
  
"Ugh, I knew this was a mistake," I mutter as I shove past him to pull a pair of jeans off the pile by the bed.  
  
"Oh, come on, Buttercup, I'm just joking." He flies in front of me, impeding my trek to the blue jean pit. "Seriously. Leave it on. You look nice. . . very, VERY nice." He stands back and rests his chin in his hands. "In fact, you look--dare I say it? Like a GIRL."  
  
"Really?" my mouth drops open in mock surprise. "And I thought the BREASTS were a dead giveaway!"  
  
"Not hidden under all those sweatshirts they aren't," he retorts and tugs at the one I have on right now.  
  
I cross my arms. "Oh, and I suppose YOU have something better."  
  
He doesn't deign to answer, but instead strolls to the closet and throws the door open, rummaging around his section of the miniscule storage space. In seconds he pulls out a simple long-sleeved white button down dress shirt and tosses it to me. I catch it one-handed and examine it shrewdly. "This is yours."  
  
He rolls his eyes. "No shit, Sherlock. But it'll flatter you better than THAT," and he jerks his head at my sweatshirt. "Now can you dress yourself or--" his eyes twinkle sinisterly "--do you need MY help?"  
  
I gag at him and turn, heading for the bathroom again.  
  
"Seriously!" he yells after me, and I detect a laugh in his voice. "Considering how long it took you to get a SKIRT on, *I* could probably do a faster job of dressing you!"  
  
"Butch, I KNOW you're really good at taking off a girl's clothes, but that won't be necessary with me," I say with a sneer on my face.  
  
He winces playfully. "Ouch. That hurts, Buttercup."  
  
I turn to face him one last time in the bathroom doorway, eyelids lowered. "Funny. All the men say that the first time."  
  
He starts shaking with laughter. "Touché, Buttercup," he manages to choke out.  
  
I shake my head, starting to smile. "You are SUCH a bad influence on me," I say over my shoulder as I shut the door.  
  
  
***  
  
"Now THAT is sharp." Butch grins and gives me a low wolf whistle as I step out. "Looking quite. . . feminine."  
  
I hold my sweatshirt to my chest protectively. Despite the fact that it IS a guy's shirt, no less Butch's, I. . . fill it out. Sort of. Noticeably.  
  
Ok. You'd have to be BLIND not to take note of my. . . um, "physical endowment."  
  
"I can't believe you fit into this," I mutter, examining the sleeves, snug on my wrists.  
  
"Freshman year high school homecoming, actually," he responds. "Accidentally packed it when I left for college." He holds his hand out. "Now you don't intend to wear THAT outside, do you?" He motions for my sweatshirt, still clutched to my chest.  
  
I hesitate to hand it over.  
  
He purses his lips. "Buttercup. . . "  
  
I sigh and toss it to him, instinctively crossing my arms over my chest. However, the service that does me in this shirt is roughly the equivalent of putting glitter on a pimple.  
  
Interestingly enough he doesn't catch it. Even more so interestingly enough he didn't even MOVE to catch it. And yet even MORE so interestingly enough he appears to have gone catatonic. I mean, the guy's not even blinking.  
  
I tighten my arms (which only threatens to pop the buttons down the front) and hunch over, looking off to the side. "Um, could you NOT stare at th--ME like that?" I grumble, blushing furiously.  
  
The request snaps him awake. "Oh! God, I'm--I'm sorry--it's just--" he looks away, and--is it just me, or are his cheeks a little. . . pink? "I just. . . didn't. . . well, I didn't expect you to be so. . . " he coughs, ". . . FULL up top." He reddens slightly.  
  
I slowly uncross my arms. "Um, yeah. Since eighth grade." The year I started wearing NOTHING but sweatshirts and baggy shirts to school.  
  
His face is still turned to the side. His eyes widen slightly. "Eighth grade?" he says, awed. He starts to turn back. "You--" And here his eyes widen even more and the red hue of his face deepens, and he snaps his head back to his left. "Y-you've done a pretty good job keeping them--" he clamps his mouth and squeezes his eyes shut, "--IT, I mean IT! I mean--Oh God--" he starts pacing around, "I mean you've kept it a REALLY good-looking secret--DAMN! I mean you've done a really good job keeping those--DAMMIT!" He turns his back on me, rubbing his temples and shaking his head. "God, Buttercup, I-I'm sorry--it's just--just--well. . . "  
  
I burst out laughing, and the base of his neck turns bright red. He starts turning around. "What's so God damn--" he catches himself mid-turn and whirls back. "Um, w-what's so funny?" he mutters out of the corner of his mouth.   
  
I'm laughing so hard tears are threatening to spill out of my eyes, as are some. . . other things. "Nothing--it's just--just--" I double over, cackling maniacally.  
  
"Just what?" Butch demands, a bit indignant.  
  
"Nothing. . . " I giggle and straighten up, clearing my throat. "Nothing. It's just--you can LOOK at me, you know." I place my hands behind my back expectantly.  
  
His eyes briefly flicker to where I stand. "You don't. . . mind?"  
  
I shrug and turn a bit pink. "Well, sooner or later you're gonna have to get used to the fact that your best friend has BREASTS."  
  
He relaxes a bit and turns around, still cautious. "Quite personally, calling those breasts is doing them a huge disservice." A hint of a smile appears on his face.  
  
"I guess I'll take that as a compliment."  
  
He chuckles. "Man, talk about your skeletons in the closet."  
  
"Actually, these wouldn't fit."  
  
For the second time this day--no, this MORNING--Butch starts shaking with laughter.  
  
Man, I'm getting good.  
  
"Too slick, Buttercup," he smiles, shaking his head. "Too slick." He looks me over once hastily, a hint of a blush still on his cheeks. "So--" he says abruptly, "--what shoes you wearing? Your good ol' Nikes?" A wry smile appears on his face. "Or are you hiding a pair of shoes under that bed of ours too?"  
  
"Um, they're on top of it," I say sheepishly.  
  
His eyes blink, surprised. He stares at me a moment, then flies up to the top bunk and pulls the shoes from their spot next to the pillow. Shaking his head yet again, he looks at me with awe and admiration etched on his features. "Man, Buttercup. You ARE good."  
  
I fly toward him, hand outstretched to take the shoes. "I know."  
  
He doesn't hand them over. "Wait," he says as I reach for them. "We don't, um. . . "  
  
"Wha--" But before I can say another word he sits me on the bed and bends down. Wordlessly he tugs one of them onto my foot.  
  
"We don't want you to strain yourself in that skirt," he says softly, fitting the other one on. Then he stands, leaning on my knee a bit for support, and heads for the door. Opening it wide, he motions and bows. "Ladies first."  
  
It takes a while to process in my mind. I blink, then grin. "I believe that's the first time you've called me that. Ever," I state as I walk past him.  
  
He gives a nervous laugh as he shuts the door. "Well, you've done a pretty good job fooling me up till this point."  
  
"Don't press your luck, Romeo."  
  
He only smiles and offers me his hand, which I accept before I can give it another thought.  
  
"You know," he starts as we walk down the hall, "actually, I should've INSISTED on helping you get dressed this morning."  
  
*end pt. II*  
  
yergh. like it? hate it? don't give a shit? then review, dammit.   
  
um, i'll take this time to say i'm sorry, but the third part may not come out for awhile. yesterday i received news that two really good friends of mine got in an accident and. . . just don't feel like writing. at all. for the moment. not sure how long it'll last, but. . . for the moment i just don't know. so i posted the second part today since i wasn't sure i'd be up to doing so later on. uh. . . *sigh* ok. excuse my seriousness ^^ i just wanted to justify my reasons for putting writing at a hiatus right now, so thanks guys :) hope you liked the second part and stick around for the third (whenever it comes out ¬ ¬)  
  
and just for the record, i'm glad they're alive. really glad. 


	3. Part III

the sky's still blue, we're still breathing oxygen, and i still don't own the ppg (oh, but someday. . . SOMEDAY. . . *clenches fist and grins like a madman*)  
  
yes i updated. yes it's been about a month. no it's not the end. yes it's short. sorry, but i figured i need to post a little bit before people totally forget about this fic altogether ^^; um. . . kendall makes her first appearance. interpret her as you will, but i kinda like her O_o  
  
and if you're just ITCHING for some real romance, try hanging around till next week. by then i should have the next part up *but i wouldn't hold my breath, just in case ¬ ¬*  
  
on a lighter note, my finals are almost done! so more writing! woot! alright, enough rambling. . .   
  
-jen  
  
  
"love takes off masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within."  
-james baldwin  
(thought it seemed to fit for buttercup, at least in this story)  
  
  
*A Skirt for Sunday Evening* pt. III  
~-songbirdjen-~  
  
  
  
Kendall.  
  
What can I say about Kendall?  
  
She's petite. Fair-skinned, dark hair, dark eyes. Easy on the vision, I guess, but no bombshell. She does have a beautiful smile.  
  
She wears whatever's in her closet, which is basically a bit of everything. One day she'll dress totally in black, all dramatic like. Another day she'll go for the peasant girl look, with the patchwork skirt and flower-appliquéd top. And another day she'll toss on jeans and a t-shirt and still look fabulous in the morning. She doesn't wear makeup. She doesn't need makeup.  
  
She's really quite an admirable person. She smiles, and the world turns. The world turns a lot too, since she smiles all the time. She's an artist: writes poetry, paints watercolors, sews. She cooks. She helps anyone and everyone. She'll fly you to the sun, teach you an alien language, and, if you ask nicely, show you how to make the moon rise at two pm on a Saturday afternoon in summer with a thimble in your pocket and a blow pop in your cheek. She only says "I love you" when she means it.  
  
I haven't asked Butch about that one yet, but then again it's none of my business.  
  
Kendall's amazing. Kendall's wonderful. Kendall's beautiful, inside and out. She's become like a sister to me, not a friend (remember, I have no female friends) and yet she's so different from my real sisters that I don't even know WHAT she classifies as. She's the kind of girl that brings me soup when I'm sick, and would be happy to give me the world if only I asked for it.   
  
But if I had the guts to ask her anything, it wouldn't be for the world. It'd be for something much bigger.  
  
I don't blame her for being Butch's girlfriend. I don't blame Butch for being her boyfriend. Hell, if I were a guy, Kendall would be the type of girl I'd fall in love with too.   
  
But love isn't the type of thing I want to be thinking about right now.   
  
  
***  
  
  
Which is actually kind of difficult when the object of my said affection is a mere ten inches away from me. Holding my hand.  
  
"Hold up a moment, Buttercup," he says, steering me away from the main hall to a door on our left. Kendall's dorm. "Lemme check in with Kendall real quick." He sharply raps "Shave and a Haircut" on her door. Butch never knocks once, or twice, like a normal person. His knocks have to have personality.  
  
"Coming! Just give me a sec. . . " a muffled voice comes from the other side of the door, a light Scottish accent to it. Kendall calls herself a mutt since her ancestors came from all over the continent of Europe. "I'll be right there!" The voice speaks again, sounding a bit British this time. The doorknob starts to turn, and gazing down I abruptly notice that my hand is still encased in Butch's. Hastily I snatch it away and place my hands over my lap, well aware that Kendall really wouldn't mind anyway, but even so. . .   
  
Butch turns to stare at me curiously as the door swings open, upon which he swivels his head back to the front. Kendall's eyebrows lift in raptured surprise as she gazes at the two of us. Or maybe just Butch. Speaking of which, he grins. "Good morning, starshine," he greets, bending to kiss her cheek.   
  
I skillfully avert my eyes without turning my head.  
  
Instead of waiting for his lips to brush her skin, though, Kendall steps over to me and gives me a hug. "Might I say, Buttercup," she starts, stepping back and flashing a white-toothed smile, "that you look absolutely FABULOUS."  
  
Out of surprise and embarrassment, I redden a bit, my eyes widening. "Um. . . thanks," I mumble, staring at Kendall, who smiles kindly at me. I wait expectantly for her to ask me something like "What the hell are you doing dressed like THAT!" or "My GOD, where'd you pick up a SKIRT" but she's instilled with a very European nonchalance for courtesy, and I'm actually quite relieved she doesn't say more on the subject.  
  
"Hey, I thought you were MY girlfriend," Butch whines in the background. Kendall responds by backing into the doorway, beckoning us to come in.  
  
"YOU didn't take the time to dress nice to come see me," she states regally, indicating his loose jeans, plain white t-shirt, and faded green plaid button down shirt, unbuttoned. A green jade pendant hangs on a chain around his neck, one I gave him last Christmas.  
  
"Well, I SHOWERED," he retorts, spreading his arms. "Don't I at least get a hug?"  
  
Kendall rolls her eyes and looks meaningfully at me, her gaze saying "Boys are impossible" and steps into his embrace.   
  
"Alright," Butch grins triumphantly and dives for her neck. Kendall promptly kicks him in the shins.  
  
"Don't be so rude when I have company," she scolds playfully, then turns to me. "Can I get you anything? A glass of juice or something to eat?"  
  
"No," I say a bit hastily, feeling uncomfortable, though whether it's due to my outfit or the atmosphere I can't tell. "No thanks, I'm fine. We just stopped by because Butch. . . " I trailed off. "What DID we come here for anyway, Butch?"  
  
Rubbing his injured shin ("Oh, I didn't kick you THAT hard," Kendall says), he straightens and answers, "Just wanted to let you know I'm packed for tomorrow and won't be home till later tonight."  
  
"That's right, you guys have your date today," Kendall says thoughtfully, and I wince when I hear the word 'date.' I get the strange feeling Kendall catches this, and abruptly she says, "Well, I've still got some last minute tidying to do, so you guys go enjoy yourselves and I'll catch you tomorrow morning, Butch. And you, Buttercup," she adds. "You ARE coming to the airport tomorrow to see us off, aren't you?"   
  
I blink, then casually reply, "Of course! Wouldn't miss it for the world."  
  
Kendall smiles a bit and gazes almost. . . well, sadly at me. "I know," she says quietly, then, just as suddenly as she became serious, grins again and says, "Well, you two better head off and not waste a minute today. Try to cram a summer's worth of fun into the hours you have left before tomorrow." She ushers us out the door, quickly pecking Butch on the cheek. Then she turns to me. "You look beautiful, sweetheart. I hope you get it. Really, all you would have to do is ask me, you know?"  
  
My brow furrows in confusion. "Get what? Ask what?"  
  
But being the ever present enigma she is, Kendall only smiles, waves goodbye, and quietly shuts her door.  
  
  
***  
  
  
"And we're off," Butch announces, putting his gold '98 Mustang GT into gear. The engine revs and purrs contentedly, ready to terrorize another lucky thousand or so innocent onlookers for the day.  
  
Not that Butch is a bad driver. It's just. . . well, let's just say that after being in the front passenger seat of Butch's vehicle with him behind the wheel, diving off the top of a waterfall whose height rivals that of a thirty-story building with sharp pointy rocks lining the bottom seems pretty tame.   
  
I take a deep breath and instantly click my seatbelt on. Then I take another deep breath, squeezing my eyes shut and exhaling slowly. "Ok," I whisper, my eyes still shut, "I'm ready." I lift my eyelids a bit and turn to find Butch giving me a funny look.   
  
"Honestly, Buttercup. I'm not THAT bad a driver."   
  
And then he grins sadistically and floors the gas, propelling us from zero to sixty in a matter of seconds.  
  
"YOU MANIAC!" I shriek as we swerve, squealing out of the campus' parking lot with Butch, ever cool as ice, barely turning the wheel.   
  
  
***  
  
  
Once we get on the freeway and Butch stops counting off to me the list of reasons why I should relax when I'm in the car with him ("You know, it's hard for me to concentrate when you hyperventilate like that, Buttercup,"), we start talking about what we're gonna do for the day. Well, more like he starts talking. I'm sitting over here trying to will my heart to start pumping blood to my body again.   
  
"So," he starts, casually flicking the turn signal on and swerving into the right lane, ignoring the cacophony of horns and protests resulting in the cars behind him, "I was thinking we should go to the mall."   
  
I immediately snap to attention. "What?! The MALL?"  
  
With an elbow crooked out the window and his right hand caressing the wheel, he only nods. "What for?" I sputter. "Out of all the things we could do today--"  
  
"I have plans," he says smoothly, a hint of a smirk barely visible on his face. "And you can't argue with me, because it's MY last day for the summer."  
  
I snort. "What a load of bullshit."   
  
"Not really. I'll be paying for it all."  
  
My breath catches in my throat. He sits, eyes on the road, fixed in stony contemplation of the cars ahead.  
  
*So. . . technically. . . this IS a DATE.*  
  
You know how you can tell when the silence is too loud? When your heartbeat deafens your ears.   
  
Of course, ever being the opportunist he is, Butch chooses this time to break said silence.   
  
"Besides, that skirt you're wearing didn't have a pocket for your wallet anyway, and I seriously doubt you had a purse under your pillow along with the shoes and skirt and breasts you've been hiding from me."  
  
I smack him as he takes the exit that will lead us to the mall.  
  
  
***  
  
  
"You have GOT to be kidding me," I say incredulously, the corners of my mouth curling in disgust.   
  
"Oh, but Buttercup," Butch steps in between me and the enrance to the resident mall's beauty parlor, grinning sinisterly, "you've had that same hairstyle since we were kids. Don't you think it's time for a change?" His hand lightly brushes the shoulder length black strands, and as much as the thought of him playing with my hair thrills me my pride wins over.   
  
"I'll keep my hair the way it is, and if you don't like it you can shove it up your--"  
  
"Well, good morning, folks!" One of the male stylists has inconspicuously approached us in the hopes of bestowing upon either one of us a new physical monstrosity atop our heads. "Is there anything I can do for you lovely two today?" he questions cheerfully, acting a bit too eerily fem for my tastes.  
  
Butch, of course, is totally unfazed. "So glad you asked. This dull young lady here was hoping for something new to commemorate--"  
  
"Oh, no! I"m not letting anybody touch my head!" I turn and head for the mall's exit, fully intending to hotwire the Mustang if that's what it takes to get out of here. Butch, however, has other plans. He zips to my side in a blinding streak of green, grabs me around the waist, and before I know it I'm seated back in the salon, struggling fruitlessly to escape.   
  
He has me pinned with my arms to my sides, a look of thorough amusement on his face. I'm just about to knee him in the gut when he leans in to my cheek and says softly, "Come on, Buttercup. Just for today?" A smile plays upon his lips as he speaks, and all the air escapes from my lungs as his breath gently puffs on my cheek. Once again I find it difficult to breathe, and the silence becomes deafening, my heart beating furiously and the heat rising to my skin.  
  
Numb, I feel my muscles slacken, and once they do he releases his grip on me and stands back, a smile ever present on his face. The stylist, already wrapping a cloth around my neck and humming to himself, asks, "So what are you looking to have done, honey?"   
  
When I don't answer, he turns to Butch. "Don't cut the hair or highlight it," I hear him say. "Don't want anything permanent, just a little something to last the day or so. Other than that, my only request is to. . . 'impress me.'"  
  
"You?!" I scoff, finding my voice again. "What about ME? This isn't YOUR hair, you know."  
  
"Oh, don't worry, honey," says the stylist--no, Kris with a 'K,' I note, my eye catching his name tag clipped to his shirt. "I'll take good care of your hair and make you the happiest girl alive for stepping in here!" He giggles, WAY more feminine than any gay male, or even straight female for that matter, should.  
  
"Work your creative magic, man," Butch's voice calls as he goes to sit and flip through some magazines.  
  
"Oh, believe me," Kris responds with a grin, raising the chair and tipping it back so he can wash my hair, "you WON'T be disappointed." I only grumble a bit, but don't protest as Kris with a 'K' starts pulling out bottles of shampoo and conditioner.  
  
"By the way--" I hear Butch start again, and groan.  
  
"NOW what do you want him to--"  
  
All of a sudden Butch's face is hovering inches from mine, his pretty bright green eyes penetrating my glare, and my expression melts. "Thank you," he says, smiling his genuine smile. I can still smell faint traces of the soap he used this morning, and the shampoo, too; he's so close. A mere inch away, so if either of us shifted. . .   
  
His pendant drops onto my neck, the cool jade almost like a kiss on my skin. Then he takes his leave once more.  
  
My heartbeat deafens my ears.  
  
*end pt. III*  
  
  
and that's kind of a. . . shitty way to end this part, but oh well. wasn't intending to end there but i still have that one final project to work on @-@ nrgh! flash is a BITCH to work with, by the way. i've noticed a trend with "k" names--first kendall, now kris. and please don't mind if there are any typos in here *cringes and blushes* i get all mad and embarrassed-like when i screw up, but it's past midnight and. . . um, stuff, so i wanna go to sleep and. . . um, more stuff, so i don't feel like proofing right now ^^;  
  
and btw, for those of you waiting for the "being moody" series. . . i hope you're really really REALLY patient people. . . *coughs nervously*  
  
'tis all. . . reviews inspire me to write, so don't hesitate to drop a line in the little box! 


	4. Part IV

i'm not gonna bother with excuses for why this came out roughly a month later than it was supposed to -_-' i'll just say that once again, i hated ending the chapter this way and was hoping to present you guys with more, but my muse has failed to get me to sit down and actually write. so here is part 4. i think. yeah, this is part 4.  
  
i have never, nor WILL i ever, own the ppg. but then again. . . nah.  
  
btw, i haven't said this before, but thank you to everyone who reads & reviews this little piece of junk. it really means a lot to me to get such positive reviews, even if i'm not so positive about the piece and don't necessarily AGREE w/the reviews myself ^^; so thanks to all youse guys. currently in san antonio, and i know some of you guys have me on your aim, so don't expect me on till. . . um, july 27 *coughcough* thank you again to everyone who reviews, i love you people :)  
  
*currently counting down the days till the ppg movie comes out. . . fearing she shall spontaneously combust before it actually does @_@*  
  
-jen  
  
  
*A Skirt for Sunday Evening* pt. IV  
~-songbirdjen-~  
  
  
  
  
"I hate how my lips always chap during this time of year," I grumble, trying to steer the direction of the conversation away from my hair. Kris with a 'K' hadn't skipped out on his creative juices when he had set his hands on my tousled mane. I mean, the hairstyle was simple enough: my hair had been pulled back into two buns on the top of either side of my head, with stray strands strategically strewn (that's alliteration, folks) about carelessly. And my hair had been parted in such a way that my bangs appeared to hang down past my chin, when in reality they barely brushed my eyes. Kris had wrapped and tucked most of it into the two buns, with two sole strands hanging on either side of my face.  
  
I don't care much for it; to be quite frank, it was difficult to keep myself from screwing up my face and pointedly saying I looked like a skewered anime chick out of Sailor Moon (I shudder to think). I don't like having to keep brushing the strands out of my eyes, my neck feels bare and naked, and I'm pretty sure that at least one of the million pins that has been shoved into my head is securely lodged in my brain.   
  
Butch, of course, adores it.   
  
"Thus your look of femininity is made ultimately complete," he had said with a grin as we walked out into the mall. Frustrated, I'd asked how much the idiot had had to fork over for my new 'do,' to which he had replied, "You're not supposed to ask how much a gift costs; it's rude."  
  
"Well, I never wanted this 'GIFT' in the first place, so I think I have an obligation to know," I snapped.   
  
"Did you happen to catch what shampoo he used?"  
  
". . . What?! What kind of crazy question--"  
  
And he leaned in to the nape of my neck, inhaled, and whispered, "It smells nice."  
  
A period of awkward silence followed, at least for me. Butch only continued his careless gait, completely oblivious to the fact my heart was jammed in my throat.   
  
***  
  
That brings us to now. It was at this point I chose to comment on the physical state of my lips. It's a stupid thing to say, yes, but anything was better than not saying a word at all.  
  
"Well, don't you use chapstick?" Butch asks.   
  
I snort. "I don't like applying foreign objects to my skin, or don't you remember?"  
  
"But you don't want your skin splitting and bleeding because you're too stubborn to treat it. Hey, let's stop in here for a minute." He veers off into a Bath and Body Works store before I can protest, and I reluctantly follow, trying not to inhale as I walk in. With as many fragrances as this piled into one store, I imagine half of the chemicals/ingredients are hazardous to my health and toxic.  
  
I already know what Butch plans on doing and can't help but smile (despite the lack of adequate oxygen I'm getting at the moment) as he walks up to the front desk, leans on the counter, and asks the store clerk, "Say, do you have any bottles of Honeydew Pearberry Star Fruit--"  
  
"--Kiwi Passion Delight Splash?" I finish for him.   
  
He turns and flashes a gratifying smile at me while the clerk blinks and stammers, "I-I'm sorry, could you repeat that?"  
  
"Honeydew Pearberry Star Fruit Kiwi Passion Delight Splash," Butch responds, slowly and deliberately. He's always had a great mind for remembering things.  
  
I chime in, playing the ridiculously stereotypical lost little damsel in distress. "I received it from a friend of mine for my birthday a few months ago and fell in love with it, but I finished it off last week. Is it possible you have any in stock at the moment? I didn't see it on your display cases." I pout and dumbly twirl a strand of hair, Butch doing his best not to snicker at my horrendously accurate depiction of your typical idiotic female (no offense, ladies).  
  
I'm finding it hard not to laugh myself as her eyes shoot back between me and Butch, and finally states, with much hesitation, "I guess I could go and check, but I seriously doubt--"  
  
"Thank you," Butch interrupts. "Buttercup, why don't you look over the display cases again while our friend--" he takes this time to peer at the clerk's name tag "--Michelle here checks their stock in back."  
  
"Can do." I step away from the counter and proceed to walk around feigning concentration on each and every label on the shelves as Michelle reluctantly goes through a back door and Butch starts fiddling around with random items on the counter. I idly hum to myself, hearing off in the not too far distance a couple of girls arguing over which out of twenty different scents is paramount to the rest.  
  
"Country Apple's better than Peach, but not as good as Honeysuckle."  
  
"Nuh-uh! Honeysuckle's worse than Cucumber Melon, which is better than Freesia but not as pretty as Lilac, which is WAY nicer smelling than Country Apple."  
  
"Oh, PLEASE!"  
  
"Fine then, I'll prove it! Say, lady--"  
  
And horror of horrors, I feel a tap on my arm and look down to see two preteen girls with armfuls of body splash and lotions, gazing up at me expectantly.  
  
"Could you tell us which one smells better to you?"  
  
Before I can reply one of them shoves a wrist in my face, standing on their tiptoes. "This is tangerine spice."   
  
I open my mouth to ask as civilly as I possibly can for her to please remove her hand from my face or else I shall remove it from her body when just as suddenly her friend shoves HER own wrist into my face too. "And this is Watermelon."  
  
"And here on the back of my hand is Juniper Breeze."  
  
"And this one's Rainwater."  
  
"Oooh, smell this one, it's Vanilla Bean."  
  
Now the only thing keeping me from physically harming them is the fact that the poisonous fumes have invaded my senses and my head is swimming because I'm finding it difficult to breathe. And all the while they continue to take turns (or not) worsening my condition, oblivious to the fact that I can't tell a single difference between Daffodil Summer and Ginger Olive and Cinnamon Tea.  
  
"Oh, for crying out loud!" I finally snap in frustration, my face contorting into one of pain and disbelief. "They all smell THE SAME!!"  
  
The two girls stop giving me fragrances to sample, look at me, then at each other. "Um, yeah, okay--" says one girl "--but which one smells BETTER?"  
  
I grit my teeth and move, quite deliberately, to strangle them with my bare hands, when Butch takes me by the elbow and says, "Well, I've had my fun. Let's go grab some lunch. Good day, ladies." He nods at my attackers, winks, then escorts me out the store and in the direction of the food court.  
  
Having yet to recover from 'Attack Mode,' I blink in mild confusion for a moment. Behind me I hear what sounds like a large number of bottles and tubes of body splash and lotion dropping to the floor, followed by a few gasps, then an excited voice squealing, "Omigosh! Did you SEE that? That guy was SOOOOO hot!!!"  
  
***  
  
"Oh, before I forget," Butch starts after a momentary stint of amusement (it was difficult for anyone within a five-mile radius of the store we were just in NOT to hear those two girls going on about how incredibly 'hot' Butch was), "I picked up something for you."  
  
My head snaps to attention in shock. "Whaddya MEAN, picked UP something? From THAT wretched place?"  
  
"I didn't klepto it, if THAT'S what you MEAN," Butch says, mocking my emphasis on words. "Paid for all $2.39 of it. Highway robbery, I swear." He reaches into his shirt pocket and tosses something into the air toward me, which I catch in my right hand. A tube of coconut lip balm. "That way your lips won't be so chapped. Try it out."  
  
I stare at him in exasperation. "How do you expect me to put this on?"  
  
He stops and turns around, a look of disbelief on his face. "You mean to tell me you don't know how to apply chapstick?!"  
  
"Okay, first of all, this isn't chapstick: it's LIP BALM." I point at the label. "And no, I've NEVER worn this kind of stuff before in my life; what makes you think I'll start now?" I wave the little tube around in the air, adding to the complete and total idiocy of this entire conversation.  
  
"Well, reason ONE," he answers, turning his back to me and starting to walk again, "your lips won't get so dry if you apply it daily, and besides, I thought you liked coconut."  
  
I stay put, staring at the back of his head. "I hate coconut, I hate makeup--"  
  
"It's NOT makeup, Buttercup--"  
  
"--AND I can't even put this stuff on in the first place--"  
  
"Oh, for Christ's sake!" Butch whirls around, walks toward me, plucks the tube out of my hands, uncaps it, and takes my chin in his hand, the lip balm in his other.   
  
"What--"  
  
"Hold it, don't move," Butch commands, and with a quick twist of the bottom dial, turns the applicant toward me and begins to smooth the balm over my lips.  
  
I freeze.  
  
My widened eyes dart around in panic, my heartbeat quickens furiously, and the spot on my chin where Butch is gently grasping and lifting towards him is starting to tingle and burn. Stunned, my eyes finally rest and focus on his face. The tip of his tongue is sticking out of the side of his mouth in concentration, and his eyes, half-closed, follow the path of chapstick he applies to first my lower lip, then my upper.  
  
My face is starting to redden as I watch him. I can barely detect the faint flavor of coconut on my tongue and try to focus on that instead.  
  
"Now," he says, removing the applicator from my mouth and recapping it, "smack your lips together like this." And he runs his tongue briefly over his own lips and demonstrates for me. I obediently comply. I can't say anything else at the moment anyway. "Perfect," he says softly, rubbing at the corner of my mouth. He drops the tube back into his shirt pocket. "I'll hold on to this for you for right now." With a quick flash of his genuine smile (my heart jams itself in my throat again) he turns and says over his shoulder as he walks, "And I'm sorry you hate coconut."  
  
I subconsciously run my tongue lightly over my lips. "I USED to hate coconut," I whisper to myself before I take his lead and follow him to the food court.  
  
*end pt. IV*  
  
um. . . yeah. there was supposed to be more. but there kinda isn't at the moment. i've been attacked with two other writing bugs, possibly three, and they all scream "WRITE ME OR I KILL YOU"  
  
. . . ok, maybe not that, but inspiration for this story is at a standstill at the moment *don't kill me* but since i already have it semi-mapped out in my ridiculously small mass of grey matter we'll see. hold tight. it'll come! i swear!  
  
ff.net was down when i originally wanted to post this, and i was going into fic withdrawal O_o let's give a big hand to the ff.net staff for doing all the funky upgrading stuff they did; without them the site would not. . . um, be. . . here. *looks around stupidly* EVERYONE APPLAUD!!!  
  
love ff.net, love it's staffers, and love mah readers, who have a tendency to love my stories no matter how much i might NOT love them myself ^^; it's just one big worldah love with me XD  
  
now i'm going to go sit alone in a corner of a dark room and count the days until the ppg movie comes out, meanwhile grasping my sanity like i grasp the rag i killed the elephant with. . . @_* 


	5. Part V

i can't believe within 20 days of uploading the last chapter i'm actually updating with a new one O_o  
  
and this one is. . . shall we say, considerably longer than all the past ones? or if it isn't and i'm just hallucinating, forgive me, because when i was typing it up it sure felt like it was the chapter that just would not end. . .  
  
um, the rest of the guys and gals make their "appearance." well, not really, but they're mentioned! it counts, doesn't it? and they might be kinda. . . bashed, but not really. i love all of them, you guys, but this is buttercup and butch we're talking about, so who the hell didn't see a mini-bash fest coming anyway, especially when you're dealing with blossom and brick?  
  
there is a LOT of expository dialogue in here because i try to explain to those who want an explanation as to how the guys came back and what the other guys and gals are doing just. . . um, how the guys came back and what the other guys and gals are doing ^^; so if i fail miserably just ignore it and read the rest of the chapter.  
  
go see the powerpuff girls movie *is currently planning for a third screening of said movie* yes i'm quite sad.  
  
-jen  
  
"he was a boi she was a girl can i make it any more obvious?" -avril lavigne 'sk8er boi'  
  
*A Skirt for Sunday Evening* pt. V ~-songbirdjen-~  
  
  
  
"I called Brick last night," Butch says offhandedly a moment before he takes a sip of his Dr. Pepper.  
  
I grin. "Oh really?" Despite giving everyone around him the impression he had a huge stick up his ass, I easily found Brick the best looker of the three and had, in fact, crushed on him a bit back when we were kids.  
  
That is, until 7th grade. The grade that killed off all my former crushes and left me with the one I carry to this day.  
  
But anyway, don't go thinking it was one of those lovey-dovey, blushed every time I saw him, swooned whenever he spoke to me crushes. As far as looks went, Boomer was too "pretty boy," Butch had been a bit too. . . um, "exotic" for my younger tastes, what with his dark hair and bright eyes (and I know that sounds weird since I could practically pass for his twin, but hey, cut me some slack, man) and plus, he was my best friend.  
  
Brick, though. . . while he didn't exactly look orthodox (think freakish red eyes?), the thing I found most attractive about him was the fact that he couldn't stand taking shit from Blossom even more than me myself.  
  
Throughout the entirety of our friendship with the guys, Brick and Blossom were the two that NEVER clicked. They hated each other for obvious reasons: both were the so-called "leaders" of their respective siblings, both had to have things their own individual ways, and allow me to rephrase the "stick up their ass."  
  
It wasn't just a stick. It was an entire forest.  
  
Thus they drove each other insane.  
  
Which provided the rest of us with many hours of fulfilling entertainment and amusement.  
  
As far as I knew, they were still at it and going strong in college.  
  
"So what'd the sexy son of a bitch have to say?" I may not have had a crush on the guy anymore, but recurring jokes run rampant in my friendship with his brother.  
  
"Something like 'BUTCH! It's not like THAT! You've got it all wrong!' and some other junk about it being an assignment they were working on."  
  
My forkful of baked potato had stopped in midair on its way to my open mouth. "Why the hell would he say that?"  
  
Butch takes another sip of Dr. Pepper before saying, "Because he didn't answer the phone. Blossom did."  
  
Said fork drops to tray.  
  
Buttercup's said mouth drops to floor.  
  
Said Butch takes one more sip of Dr. Pepper before grinning maniacally. "Oh, he had fun explaining that one to me, he did." He leans his elbows on the table and looks pointedly at me. "Brick's only got one phone in his entire dorm, and it's in his bedroom. So not ONLY was his bitter lifelong nemesis in his living pad, she was in his SLEEPING pad too. So of course. . . " he pauses and throws a glance at me as I bite my lip and smile, playing out this scene in my head, "--of course when she answers the phone I immediately say 'Blossom?!' and Blossom screams 'BUTCH?!' and all of a sudden I hear this heavy thump and Brick in the back cry 'HOLY SHIT!!' and another series of thumps before Brick gets on the line and says 'Butch!' and he's heaving and panting and of course I have to say 'Brick you son of a bitch you weren't supposed to get laid before me!' and he starts screaming the shit about assignments and how I've got it all wrong and I respond 'But what the hell are you two doing in the BEDROOM?!' and HE says 'I swear to GOD, man, we weren't doing anything!! You KNOW I'd never even THINK about touching this bitch on wheels--' then all of a sudden Blossom, who hasn't said a WORD since she answered the phone, starts screaming at Brick for calling her a 'bitch on wheels--'"  
  
"Which she is," I interject.  
  
"Naturally," Butch concedes, "and they spend a good ten to fifteen minutes going back and forth while I calmly listen on the other line."  
  
I grin widely. "So what'd they say?"  
  
Butch looks off to the side then back at me. "My poor virginal ears have been tainted and scarred for life," he whimpers.  
  
I crumple up my napkin and throw it at him. It hits him between the eyes. "You don't even HAVE any ears, Chastity."  
  
"Hey! That's discrimination!"  
  
I snort. "Seriously. What'd they say?"  
  
He shrugs. "Beats me. I went off to take a shower and when I came back they hadn't slowed down."  
  
For the umpteenth time I fidget in my seat. I'm still trying to get used to this goddamn skirt. "Sounds like classic Brick & Blossom rivalry."  
  
The string of insults, taunting, and endless competition was now symbolic of the relationship those two had. Their desire to beat each other out at every cost was uncanny. In battle each had barked out orders with complete disregard for their respective counterpart's ideas or plans. In school they both enrolled in the highest level classes, determined that somehow with each homework assignment, each test, each final exam they'd finally prove which of them was truly the most intelligent. Come college application time they had sent out applications to Yale, Harvard, Stanford, NYU, MIT, UCLA; they even went so far out as to apply to Oxford and audition for Juilliard just for the sheer chance to best each other and gloat in the other's face should any ONE of those universities turn either of them down.  
  
So yes, that was pretty uncanny. Even more so, however, was how SIMILAR the two were. Similar cannot even possibly describe it. Looking at the countless battleplans they mapped out (separately, keep in mind) every last one of them used the same tactics, had the same objectives. Every time the results came back from the homework & tests the grades were equally perfect right down to the decimal point, if any.  
  
Even when they both graduated as valedictorians (note the "s"), an occurrence nobody in the history of forever could recall happening before, their GPA's seemed to be exact replicas of each other. Needless to say, skepticism about their honesty led to a full-fledged investigation by the school board that turned up nothing except for the fact that yes, they really DID hate each other THAT MUCH.  
  
And need I say anything about their college applications? That's right. They received acceptance letters from every one of them. Juilliard had commented that Blossom's dance routine (she had graduated the Head Major of our high school dance troupe) was "romantic and compelling," while the pieces in Brick's art portfolio (he ended up skipping ahead into Advanced Art IV our sophomore year) were "dramatic and thought-provoking." Afterwards they quibbled over the several connotations those responses had.  
  
My personal favorite had been Blossom jeering that "thought-provoking" was a nice way of saying Brick's artwork was about as deep as the shallow end of the kiddie pool.  
  
And now, present day. Through a strange series of coincidences they both ended up selecting Harvard as their top choice and law as their major. Frequent updates (courtesy of Bubbles and the Professor back home) had confirmed this: Yes, they were both head of their class. Yes, they were both exepcted to graduate early (very early, in fact) with a Masters' Degree in Law (and a Minor in Business for Blossom and one in Psychology for Brick).  
  
And yes: they STILL hated each others' guts. Word was they now held Chess tournaments every Friday evening starting at 9 that sometimes went past midnight and ALWAYS ended in a stalemate, regardless of who was black and who was white.  
  
"Ah, siblings," I say with a sigh and salute the ceiling.  
  
"Here here. Or is it hear hear?"  
  
"Whatever. Say," I sit up in my seat, wincing as I tug at my skirt yet AGAIN, "what were you calling Brick for anyway?" While me and my sisters used the phone as our standard means of communicating with each other, the boys had always preferred doing so through e-mails and instant messaging. "You normally don't call--"  
  
Butch's face had become dark and stoic. "They beeped me two nights ago."  
  
I stop fidgeting, my skirt forgotten. "They. . . beeped you?"  
  
He only nods.  
  
Almost immediately I start sputtering some strange string of words that I'm hoping at some point forms a comprehensible sentence. "But. . . you said. . . they were supposed to. . . when you came back. . . I thought. . . "  
  
Finally I give up and slump back against the wall of the booth. "What did you tell them?"  
  
"Brick is taking care of it," he mutters resolutely, signifying the subject is closed. "We shouldn't be talking about this in public anyway."  
  
***  
  
And perhaps this is the part when a basic summary of just how the Rowdyruff Boys came back into creation should be inserted.  
  
At some point in his life, while we (my sisters and me) were still 5-year- olds attending Pokey Oaks Kindergarten, Mojo was starting to lack in. . . shall we say, adequate funding for the physical manifestations of his delusions of grandeur. So in other words, he needed more cash to continue being an evil genius and was running out of it fast since we were just too damn good at shooting said plans down, either by rendering his destructive inventions helpless or cornering him whenever he tried to hit the bank for more money.  
  
Well, this "agency" approached him, separate from the government, mind you, that offerred to provide funding for his evil plans the rest of his life as long as he provide them with only one thing.  
  
Actually, three. The boys.  
  
Shady, I know. But that's the way the cookie crumbles every now and then.  
  
The story actually goes a lot deeper than that, but it starts getting complicated.  
  
Like how the agency had originally made several offers to the Professor for us. Or how come the boys were authorized to live in a VERY well-furnished home with no legal guardian and a supposedly limitless amount of cash on hand. And the big one: whether the actions this agency took sometimes were legal. I mean, Butch had frequently assured me that their actions were always ultimately for the better, yet I couldn't help but notice how every time we heard about another missing VIP or rumors that highly advanced military weaponry was being tested off somewhere in the Pacific Ocean, Butch. . . well, he would always be facing the other direction.  
  
As far as I knew, I was the only one without any connections to this organization that was aware of the boys' involvement in any strange happenings. Bubbles maybe knew through Boomer, Blossom definitely not.  
  
Me myself, I didn't find out till years after Butch and I had become friends, and only because I threatened to cut off our friendship unless he told me why they ran off so frequently without notice. I'd actually been kidding at the time, but Butch apparently had taken the "threat" quite seriously, because he wouldn't have spilled that info to me otherwise.  
  
***  
  
I bite my lip. "Sorry." The rest of my potato sits lonely on its little tray, along with what remains of my appetite. "I just. . . didn't want a repeat of the summer before our senior year."  
  
In less than a second he yanks me by my collar and huddles with me over the table, leaning his forehead against mine.  
  
The color drains from my face, as if on cue.  
  
"Hey," he whispers, and I feel his breath puffing lightly on my lips. "Don't worry. I swear to you, nothing like that will EVER happen again." He squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath. "Trust me," he lets out with a sigh.  
  
I somehow manage an "Ok" despite my strained breathing and his hand slips from my collar, brushing my cheek.  
  
I sit back, but he continues to lean toward me, smiling apologetically and shaking his head. "I can't. . . imagine. . . what it must've been like for you to receive that letter." The smile fades from his face. "I shouldn't have listed you as a contact in case I--in case the worst happened. Brick and Boomer didn't choose one, and I never even thought the situation would get so serious that they would find it necessary to--"  
  
"Butch," I interrupt, and he abruptly stops and lifts his eyes to mine. I grin wryly. "You want the rest of my potato?"  
  
***  
  
"So what about the rest of the family?"  
  
"What about them?" I respond, trying to not walk too much like a guy what with the skirt and all on our way out of the food court.  
  
"Weren't you on the phone with blue hotness last night?"  
  
I roll my eyes and smile. Where I found Brick the best looking eye candy of the guys, Butch frequently referred to Bubbles as the "ultra fine superfly blue-eyed fair-skinned hot chick next door," otherwise known as "blue hotness."  
  
"How did YOU know that?"  
  
"I waited for an hour for you to get off the line so I could ring Brick, you dork. What's new with her? Is Townsville's resident 'Powerpuff publicity sellout' still modeling?"  
  
"Not so much anymore. Said she wants to focus on 'other things.'" I pause dramatically. "Like men."  
  
Butch makes a face. "Oh man."  
  
I smack my lips together. "By the way, did you try to get ahold of Boomer?"  
  
He gazes at me curiously. "As a matter of fact, I did. Why--oh, geez." He shuts his eyes and looks skyward. "Are they back together AGAIN?"  
  
"Flew into Townsville two days ago," I spout grimly with a nod.  
  
"This is--what?--the third time now?"  
  
"Fourth, actually."  
  
He opens his eyes and stares quizzically at me once more. "Fourth? You sure?"  
  
"Yep. The first time was the last middle school dance in 8th grade where they decided they'd give it a shot since they flirted like hell anyway."  
  
"Right, and then they broke up over the summer on the grounds that they wanted to see other people and broaden their horizons in high school."  
  
"And ended up getting back together at Freshman Homecoming."  
  
"But then they broke up SENIOR Homecoming because Boomer was going to an out of state college and Bubbles wanted to stay home."  
  
"Uh-huh."  
  
"So that's two right there."  
  
"Uh-huh."  
  
"Isn't that it?"  
  
I shook my head. "At graduation they reached the conclusion that a long distance relationship was worth a shot and got back together, then broke up two years later--"  
  
"Or two years ago--"  
  
"--due partly because long distance was harder than they thought, and partly because of all the publicity Bubbles was getting for modeling at the time."  
  
A hint of a grin grazes Butch's expression. "Ah, yes. I treasured that 'got milk?' mag ad like it was my child. I even had it pasted on the ceiling for awhile."  
  
"Yeah, until I *edited* it that fateful evening while you slumbered. I still say the mustache I gave her looked a lot better than the milk one she had beforehand."  
  
He places an adorably characteristic pout on his face. "That was kinda mean. She's your sister."  
  
"Precisely why I would have preferred actual photographs around the dorm as opposed to the 'got milk?' and brand name clothing ads she modeled for."  
  
"Aww. . . " Butch bounds in front of me and leans forward teasingly. "Sounds like somebody's JEALOUS."  
  
Having nothing better to do, I scowl. "Tuh! Right. And pigs'll fly."  
  
At hearing my words, Butch floats a few feet away from me and hovers inconspicuously. "Oink oink."  
  
And how can I not help but crack a laugh?  
  
"You interpret the term 'pig' a little loosely there, Butch."  
  
Shrug. "Eh. you want some ice cream?"  
  
A brief moment of silence. "You're hungry AGAIN?!"  
  
"Food. It does a body good. Mint chocolate chip, if you please," he says to the lady working the miniature ice cream cart miles away from the food court where it SHOULD be.  
  
"You just polished off two plates of jambalaya and half of a baked potato with ham and cheese! HOW can you still be hungry?!?"  
  
"So do you want some or not?" he asks, ignoring my question as he hands over his money for the cone.  
  
I cross my arms. "I'm not hungry, thank you."  
  
"Ok, first the skirt, the shoes, the breasts, and NOW you're worried about gaining a little WEIGHT?" He approaches me, cone in hand, an incredulous look tinged with amusement on his features. "You really ARE turning into a woman--" he smirks slyly, "--WOMAN."  
  
I lightly shove him away, careful to avoid the ice cream looming menacincly over my borrowed white shirt. "And you really ARE a pig, PIG."  
  
Yet another smile. "Oink oink."  
  
Which only confirms the suspicion that he really IS the cutest guy I've ever met.  
  
***  
  
"Oh, GOD, Buttercup," he moans exaggeratedly, waving the still full scooped mint chocolate chip cone under my nonexistant nose, "this ice cream is simply ORGASMIC."  
  
A couple walking with their kid in tow shoot a menacing look at us, cover the child's ears, then hurry away.  
  
I glance darkly at my companion. "That word doesn't exactly stimulate my appetite, Butch."  
  
"What? You mean ORGASMIC?" he questions innocently. This time a group of teenagers passing by do their best to stifle their juvenile laughter as they point at us and giggle.  
  
I open my mouth to retort but change my mind and sit down on a bench instead. "Well," I whisper playfully, lowering my eyelids, crossing my legs, and fiddling with the top button of my shirt, "not for ice cream anyway."  
  
Butch sits next to me, reclining against the bench's arm and propping his legs up on my lap, grinning all the while. "It's a wonder you haven't had a boyfriend YET."  
  
"You scare 'em all off."  
  
He whimpers like a puppy. "Does that mean you don't want me hanging around you anymore?"  
  
"Yes. Go away. Now. On second thought, no. Stay."  
  
"Why the sudden change of heart?"  
  
I snatch the cone from his unsuspecting hand and help myself. "Because I really DO want some ice cream."  
  
"HAH!" He points accusingly at me. "I knew you wouldn't be able to resist!"  
  
I purse my lips and take another lick. "You know damn well mint chocolate chip's my favorite."  
  
Now he smirks. "I was actually talking about my suave debonair charms."  
  
He makes a grab back for his cone but I maneuver it out of his reach. "Charms?! Pft! Charm my ass."  
  
Suddenly his head is resting on my shoulder. "Is that an invitation?" He tugs at my skirt and surreptitiously runs his tongue over his teeth with a smile.  
  
"Git offa me, you sicko," I growl, laughing as I push him away. "You are such a FLIRT."  
  
"Only because you took my ice cream!" he whines, pouting again.  
  
My turn to smirk. "Take it back. Your cone's too small anyway."  
  
His eyes go wide and he fakes a gasp. "Too small? Just what are you trying to say, Buttercup?!"  
  
"TakeitbacktakeitbacktakeitBACK!" I shriek, doubling over with laughter and thrusting the ice cream in his face.  
  
"Thank you!" He gratefully plucks it from my grasp and proceeds to finish the rest of it in a few bites.  
  
With a content sigh he leans back, legs still propped up on my lap. I take the liberty of tossing them off, which causes Butch to topple off the bench and crash at a weird angle on the floor.  
  
"Jerk." I stick my tongue out at him.  
  
"Yeah, well, at least I'm a jerk with a view," he says evilly and begins nodding his head in approval. "A very NICE view," he rephrases and it's at this moment that I notice his gaze is directed at the lower portion of my body--  
  
"AUGH!" My face immediately turns a bright red and I roughly kick him away. He slides on his ass to the other side of the walkway, laughing histerically.  
  
What I'm sure is the entire populace of the mall turns to stare us, and with a huff I walk myself over to him and drag him off by the collar of his shirt, mumbling something about how I hope he laughs so hard he chokes.  
  
***  
  
"I hope you realize I'm perfectly capable of walking myself," he grumbles some time later, obviously a bit sour after I dragged him up and down a few escalators.  
  
By command I abruptly release his collar and his head drops with a loud (and strangely satisfying) 'THUD' on the tile floor.  
  
"Fine then," I lightly comment, crossing my arms and taking a few steps before turning to watch him nurse his injured head.  
  
He props himself up on one elbow and rubs the back of his head with the other hand, sticking his tongue out the side of his mouth and squeezing an eye shut.  
  
I find a silly grin developing on my face and quickly suppress it, reminding myself that he'll be gone all summer and besides, it's useless to fawn over a guy who'll never see me as anything more than a friend. . .  
  
I take a deep breath and turn away, taking another couple of steps. I pause and shut my eyes. 'But even so. . . '  
  
Another deep breath. I take my time exhaling, blowing the uncharacteristic bangs out of my face.  
  
"God I'm gonna miss you," I mumble quietly under my breath, eyes still squeezed shut.  
  
"It's not too late to change your mind," a voice whispers, and my eyes fly open to find Butch looming over me, concerned.  
  
I quickly back away, embarrassed he heard me. "Um, a-about what?" I stumble over the words, avoiding his gaze.  
  
He leans over in my line of vision. "About whether you want me leaving with Kendall tomorrow or not," he says with the utmost seriousness, no trace of a smile on his face. "Just say the word. And I'll. . . I'll stay."  
  
I force a laugh. "Don't be ridiculous," I protest, moving to walk past him.  
  
"I'm SERIOUS, Buttercup." He starts following me. "If you want me to stay here with you--"  
  
"Come off it, Butch," I say roughly.  
  
My voice is on the verge of cracking.  
  
"You already have your ticket and everything--"  
  
"Bloody hell, Buttercup, you know God damn well that doesn't make a shit of a difference," he snaps.  
  
Surprised, I whirl around to face him, shocked at the ferocity with which he spoke. His attention is focused on the window of some store, closed for renovations.  
  
He takes a deep breath and slowly exhales before continuing. "I'm serious, Buttercup," he repeats. "I mean," he turns to me, "I don't wanna leave you-- don't wanna leave you here alone. After all," and he smiles ironically, "whaddya gonna do without me around to keep you company?"  
  
What AM I going to do without you?  
  
"Maybe find a boyfriend." I intend to reply jokingly, but it comes out sounding fake and bitter.  
  
"Hmp." Butch snorts a bit and walks past me.  
  
"'Hmp?!' What the hell is THAT supposed to mean?"  
  
"It means good luck," he casually answers.  
  
"Oh, *I* see," I emphasize with my hands on my hips and voice dripping with sarcasm, "you don't think I'm capable of holding down a guy, do you?"  
  
"It's not that," Butch lightly protests. He stops walking.  
  
"I meant good luck finding a guy worthy of you."  
  
***  
  
It feels. . . like a huge dead weight has just been dropped on my shoulders.  
  
My arms fall to my sides, my legs buckle a bit, and I'm suddenly exhausted despite the fact I'm wide awake.  
  
"Wh-wha. . . ?"  
  
Somehow I can't exactly place the 't' at the end of the word.  
  
Butch lets his air out through his teeth, runs a hand briskly through his hair then abruptly shoves them both into the pockets of his jeans. He jingles his car keys twice and turns.  
  
Dead serious.  
  
"Really, Buttercup," and he starts walking towards me, which in turn makes me want to whirl around and run, but I can't move, "ask any guy--ANY guy-- you've ever hung out with from the time you could--I dunno--CHEW--and he will tell you," he pauses, having reached me, "you are one of the most FASCINATING members of the opposite sex it has ever been his pleasure to meet."  
  
I force what is probably my 500th fake laugh of the day. "You're exaggerating--"  
  
"Oh, come on, Buttercup!" he suddenly explodes. "You--you--"  
  
He yanks his hands out of his pockets and starts gesturing wildly toward me. "Where the hell do I start? You don't back down from a fight! You don't worry about what you eat or if you're getting fat! You'd rather stay home and play video games than go shopping! You watch the Super Bowl! You don't care if you get dirty! Hell, you MAKE dirty jokes ALL THE FRIGGIN' TIME! You belch, you punch, you kick, and God DAMN you sure can beat the shit outta people! Not to mention you drink and cuss like a sailor! But wait--" he holds up his hands to stop me from interrupting "--that's only the HALF of it. In addition to being sick and sporty and, let's face it, EXCRUCIATINGLY violent at times, you're a really thoughtful, deep, and. . . " he shakes his head, trying to find the word, "God forbid, intelligent person. Yet you don't give a shit about IMPRESSING anyone. You NEVER go out of your way to make a good first impression and end up doing just that! And as far as looks go--"  
  
Once again he pauses.  
  
"You really can be quite a beautiful person once someone really gets to know you," he finally states, blushing a bit.  
  
My body temperature rises considerably, and I'm betting it shows in the color of my face.  
  
"I mean--" His eyes leave my face and dart around, avoiding me. "--well, when someone first meets you, they may not think you're much of a knockout, but. . . " He scrapes his upper lip against his teeth. ". . . after they've known you for quite some time, they start to see that you're. . . um, well. . ."  
  
He blushes even more. "Really. . . pretty," he finishes softly.  
  
His eyes fall to the floor.  
  
I. . . honestly can't say I know how to respond to that.  
  
Though my heart has apparently taken advantage of this moment to start pumping every ounce of available adrenaline to each vein and artery laced within my body.  
  
"And you know what else?" he says abruptly, the redness starting to leave his face.  
  
He doesn't wait for an answer. "Baby you sure can COOK."  
  
This last one sounds so ridiculous that I can't help but break out of my daze and bust out laughing.  
  
"Still not done," Butch interjects. He takes me by the hands and looks straight at me, cutting my laughter short.  
  
Proper breathing appears to have been rendered superfluous for me lately as my lungs tightly contract, as does my stomach.  
  
"Buttercup, there is NO other girl, super powers or not, who is like you. You are one in a million in a million. Granted, there are people--women especially--who probably aren't very. . . fond of you. But. . . coming from your best friend, you--well, you--"  
  
And he suddenly drops my hands and gives a forced laugh of his own.  
  
"And now I'm babbling and just not making any sense at all, so I should just stop talking," he chuckles, raising one hand to his head as it shakes in disapproval.  
  
"No, continue," I encourage him, smiling. That adrenaline seems to have been good for something after all. "I'm. . . what?" I look at him expectantly, inwardly surprised at my confidence.  
  
His hand falls to his side. "Well, you're. . ." He shrugs. "I--I dunno, you're. . . you're. . . " he trails off again.  
  
I cross my arms and raise an invisible eyebrow, still smiling. "Super?"  
  
He breaks into a grin and nods slowly in agreement.  
  
"Yeah," he says softly, staring at my face. "You're super. That's why," he reaches towards me and smoothes a stray bang from my face, "you should find a guy worthy of someone as. . . super as you."  
  
At this point I'm feeling so connected, so sure there's a wave of electricity or something surging between us that's impossible to ignore, and I'm so tempted to breach whatever barrier is left and just take his face in my hands and kiss it when he breaks away and it disappears, leaving me to wonder How? How?  
  
How could he not FEEL that?  
  
We were so close, so together, how could he completely ignore all of it and just turn away so EASILY?  
  
My head and my heart scream at me TELLTELLTELLTELLTELL him, bring him back, bring him back, forget about your God damn pride and just tell him HOW YOU FEEL--  
  
"Look, Buttercup," he starts uneasily, turning away slightly. "I know. . . I know this is probably. . . or maybe more than likely, I guess, I think, sound, um, a little bit. . . strange, or. . . well, maybe really WEIRD, but. . . well. . . I. . .  
  
. . . I have a confession to make."  
  
***  
  
Nothing.  
  
Nothing but dead air.  
  
The word CONFESSION hangs in the dark like a huge neon sign, taunting me, harrassing me, driving me absolutely insane.  
  
"Confession?" I whisper, my voice sounding small and tiny.  
  
Butch takes a deep breath and turns back towards me.  
  
"Buttercup," he pauses and takes another deep breath, "sometimes I look at you, and . . . I see the person. . . the girl that you are and. . . I. . . I. . . "  
  
"And you what?" I choke out, thinking It can't be it can't be it can't be. . .  
  
". . . I look at you, and I can't help. . . can't help but wish. . . "  
  
"Yes?"  
  
It can't be can't be can't can't CAN'T--  
  
"I wish I could've fallen in love with a girl like you."  
  
***  
  
It isn't.  
  
The sound magically returns. I can hear the bustling of people, the gentle stream of the fountains. Somewhere off in the distance some birds are chirping and a baby starts to cry.  
  
But I guess it's the result of some kind of scientific reaction, because now that I can hear all THOSE things I can't seem to hear Butch.  
  
His mouth moves and smiles and forms shapes and what I'm sure is words but the only words I keep hearing above the symphony of noise is "I WISH I could've fallen in love with you."  
  
Meaning he doesn't love me.  
  
Meaning he isn't in love with me.  
  
Meaning I will never, EVER be more than a friend, and it was stupid of me to think so, stupid of me to think it would change, stupid to get my hopes up over a silly little word like "confess. . . "  
  
Stupid.  
  
Rightfully oblivious to the turmoil of emotions somewhere deep in my chest cavity, Butch smiles and turns, starting to walk again. I move to follow but just. . . just can't.  
  
My feet seem to have anchored themselves in the tile and all I can do is watch, watch him walk farther and farther away, leaving me behind and alone and hurt and confused and angry, so God damn ANGRY. . .  
  
. . . at myself for being such an IDIOT.  
  
"Idiot," I snarl under my breath, and violently punch the air, using so much force I spin around on my feet a few times before I steady myself again.  
  
I give the empty space another hit, though what I really want to do is drop to the floor, hug my knees to my chest, and just. . . cry.  
  
Cry out in the middle of all these people, Butch included, who couldn't possibly know how miserable I feel, how heartbroken, but most of all, how stupid and how upset I am at myself for feeling the way I did. . .  
  
. . . and still do.  
  
I stop beating up the oxygen and let my arms hang limply at my sides, the snarl on my face softening.  
  
For a while I just stand there, in the midst of hundreds of people. It seems like the crowds are bigger now, which must mean it's late afternoon and mall traffic is always, for whatever reason, higher around 3 to 4.  
  
Teenagers and moms and little kids shove past me, some of them grumbling something about people who never think of others. I ignore them all, trying to work out one Why? in my head.  
  
Why do you still love him even though you know now for sure you'll only always be his FRIEND?  
  
All of a sudden something smooth and cool drops onto my neck and slides down my shirt and at first I think 'Oh God no I'm not CRYING, am I?' until I notice the thing, whatever it was, or is, is dangling from a golden chain.  
  
At the base of the back of my neck I hear a clasp shutting and feel a slight tickle as the chain drops onto my skin. I whirl around to find Butch, his arms slowly lowering, smiling the genuine smile at me.  
  
"How do you like it?" he prods gently.  
  
"Like what?" I say, confused.  
  
He rolls his eyes and grins playfully. "The NECKLACE, you big dummy. How do you like the necklace?" Without waiting for an answer he reaches toward me and strokes the delicate chain. "Or not so much the necklace, but the pendant."  
  
He starts to reach for the pendant down my shirt but catches himself and snaps his hand back, blushing a bit. "Um, I probably better let you get that."  
  
Wordlessly I reach down my shirt, find the trinket and lift it towards my face.  
  
"It's--it's jade," I remark, eyes darting to the jade stone hanging from his own neck. This one is different, though: instead of a carved mini-rod of stone it forms a ring, a polished green ring, and in the middle of this ring is some Chinese or Japanese character, exquisitely carved out of gold.  
  
"Why. . . when did you get this?" I question, disbelieving.  
  
"Just now." He shoots me his adorable confused look (STOP IT BUTTERCUP). "Don't you remember me asking you to wait here for a few minutes while I went off to 'do something?' Or are you completely zoning out on me now? It's only 3:37!"  
  
"What does it mean?" I indicate the asian word nestled in the ring.  
  
He gently pries the charm from my grasp and examines it. "You'd have to ask your sister. Let's just say. . ." he turns his attention to me and smiles his genuine smile again, "it's supposed to represent our relationship. Or friendship, you know," he quickly corrects, and drops the pendant back against my skin, where it slips back down my shirt, and it takes all my self control to keep from ripping it from my neck.  
  
I can't wear this.  
  
I can't have something so physically close to my heart that is a constant reminder of the extent of our relationship, of the lack of feelings of love for me as a non-friend Butch harbors, a constant reminder to me and everyone around me that 'Hey, Butch got me this because he loves me but not because he LOVES me. . . '  
  
"So do you like it?" Butch inquires expectantly, anxious for some sort of response.  
  
The cold jade feels refreshing against my skin but burns inside my chest, steadily pulsing DOESN'T LOVE YOU DOESN'T LOVE YOU DOESN'T LOVE YOU--  
  
"It's beautiful," I say softly, cracking a thin smile on my face.  
  
"Wonderful." He smiles that GODDAMN SMILE YET AGAIN and it melts and shatters my heart at the same time.  
  
"I hoped you'd like it."  
  
Taking my hand he twirls me around and starts walking. I obediently follow, limp and wilting like a rotting vegetable as we walk, steps matching the steady rhythm of DOESN'T LOVE YOU DOESN'T LOVE YOU DOESN'T LOVE YOU.  
  
And he probably never will.  
  
*end pt. V*  
  
  
  
and i could end it there but that would just be cruel and unusual punishment for you guys. plus i have more coming anyway.  
  
i apologize for any editing mistakes i made. my contacts are all worn out after being in my eyeballs for fifteen hours *_*  
  
it took a hella long time to type this up. notepad (what i usually type my stuff in) busted out on me, saying it (the chapter) was too big and i had to transfer to word to finish typing the blasted thing.  
  
for anyone who cares, this chapter itself took up maybe a fourth of my new notebook (new since i left all my other ones back in austin .) and 15 pages in word on size 10 times new roman font. it may not read very long, but damn, you sure feel it when you have to write this piece of shit up. . .  
  
much angst toward the end. but angst can be good. plot twists galore. . . well, maybe not, but i'm just twisted. school starts in a little over a month. i hope i finish this thing before then.  
  
and i used to have that necklace butch gave buttercup, only with red jade, not green. just in case anyone was interested in knowing that useless trivia bit.  
  
review if you feel so inclined. i heart you ever so muchly, faithful readers :) 


	6. Jukebox Video Selections

LOOONG author's notes. . . just warnin' ya. . . kinda mini-updates on almost EVERYTHING i'm working on. . .   
  
ahahaha. . . no, it isn't the REAL part 6 *heavy objects begin to fly at jen's head as she cowers in dark anticipation of her oncoming death* part 6 is undergoing some. . . heavy writing right now. heavy re-writing too. i think i'm gonna have to up the rating. . . :/ aw, hell, we'll see how it goes.   
  
"being moody" series has picked up again ^^ just an update on THAT one's status. . . a few other new ones too, tho not all are necessarily romance O_o *prepares to be shot dead*  
  
um, the powerpuff girls do NOT belong to me. if they did. . . i would be a very happy person. and if the rowdyruff boys belonged to me. . . i would be even happier.   
  
. . . no, you pervert, i wouldn't do that ¬ ¬ pedophiles.  
  
ok. the thanks and applause must go to craig mccracken. whee, i love you craig.   
  
and the song "things i'll never say" does not belong to me either. it belongs to the nicely talented avril lavigne (the girl who sings "complicated," which is more than likely playing on the radio as i speak). i'd highly suggest downloading the song, as that would probably enhance the whole "jukebox video" selection. . . thingy. . . thing.  
  
um, so in other words this is kind of a vidfic. vidfic meaning. . . hell, you'll figure it out. use some logic, dammit. like a music video. there.   
  
and there's nothing new here either, it's all random bits of "footage" from parts 1-5. so. . . don't kill me. 6 is coming. . . maybe later than sooner, but damn, it's coming.  
  
btw, when i use the term "flashbeat" *you'll see it later down there* i basically mean the "screen" is black and you see the clip played on a certain pulse, but you don't really see all of it; it "flashes" a bit of it on the screen. argh. . . i can't really describe it, the best way for you to completely understand what i mean is to go to www.toonamiarsenal.com, find the ppg movie under features, and d/l the trailer for the movie called "flash beat." i don't remember whether it's flashbeat 1 or 2, tho. but anyway, THAT'S what i mean when i say "flashbeat."  
  
i've talked too damn long. d/l the song for optimum effect. and don't hate me if i suck miserably at trying to pull this off; it's my first attempt to do so. tho general comments would be appreciated :)  
  
and i seriously cannot believe how many reviews i'm getting for this story. i feel so loved!!! XD thanks guys ^^ i really appreciate it.   
  
. . . if anyone gets the "blow you" and "go down" jokes in this song. . . good for you :9 and, um, don't take the line from the song "marry me today" TOO literally. . . it doesn't really represent bc's character, but it's in the song, which overall fits her anyway minus that line. in other words, don't let it get to you, good or bad :P  
  
that aside. . . onward!  
  
-jen  
  
  
  
  
*A Skirt for Sunday Evening*  
  
~Jukebox Video Selection~  
"Things I'll Never Say"  
-Avril Lavigne  
  
  
\music starts\  
  
[A brilliant white flash of light sweeps down. The camera pans down, reflecting the glare of the sun as it focuses on a shopping mall]  
  
  
  
/La da da. . . etc./  
  
[Cut to inside of the mall and zoom in on *a/n: gasp!* college version of Buttercup, complete with college sweatshirt and backpack slung over one shoulder, strolling along with a bored look on her face. All of a sudden she veers off into a store. Camera zooms out to reveal it's a *a/n: gasp again!* female clothing store]  
  
  
  
/I'm tuggin' at my hair/  
  
[Cut to Buttercup in store passing racks of clothing as other shoppers move not-so-discreetly out of her way]  
  
  
  
/I'm pullin' at my clothes/  
  
[Clerk approaches Buttercup but something catches Buttercup's attention and she walks to a rack and pulls out a black skirt]  
  
  
  
/I'm tryin' to keep my cool, I know it shows/  
  
[Clerk grabs Buttercup's elbow (to Buttercup's surprise) and drags her in direction of fitting rooms]  
  
  
  
/I'm starin' at my feet, my cheeks are turnin' red/  
  
[Cut to Buttercup standing in skirt, sweatshirt, and sneakers, and standing in front of a mirror, a look of disbelief on her face as clerk smiles approvingly and disappears]  
  
  
  
/I'm searchin' for the words inside my head/  
  
[Cut to Buttercup's p.o.v. where we're looking directly at the mirror, and in the reflection we see Butch standing beside her, smirking. Camera pans around to see the real Buttercup with an unreadable expression on her face. Butch is nowhere in sight]  
  
  
  
/And I'm feelin' nervous/  
  
[Another white flash and the scene is late last night in their dorm. Both of them are seated on the floor; Buttercup tilts her head and sneers at Butch]  
  
  
  
/Tryin' to be so perfect/  
  
[He frowns and says something (inaudible to audience)]  
  
  
  
/'Cause I know you're worth it/  
  
[Her eyes go wide and she scrambles up just as he tackles her and starts tickling her as she laughs histerically, struggling to push him off]  
  
  
  
/You're worth it/  
  
[She finally manages to topple him over and rises quickly]  
  
  
  
/Yeah!/  
  
[She zips out the window, Butch in hot pursuit]  
  
  
  
/If I could say what I wanna say/  
  
[We see them hollering back and forth, expertly dodging the tall trees and buildings on their campus]  
  
  
  
/I'd say I wanna blow you. . ./  
  
[Buttercup visibly slows down in midair]  
  
  
  
/AWAY/  
  
[Butch tackles her 'round the waist]  
  
  
  
/Be with you every night/  
  
[They roughhouse a bit in the air, Buttercup squirming around but smiling and pounding playfully on Butch's back]  
  
  
  
/Am I squeezin' you too tight/  
  
[Butch grins and continues to hold her waist in his arms]  
  
  
  
/If I could say what I wanna see. . . I wanna see you go down. . ./  
  
[They stop hovering and dive toward the ground]  
  
  
  
/ON ONE KNEE/  
  
[They land unhurt in the thick green grass, side by side]  
  
  
  
/Marry me today/  
  
[Butch rolls over on top of her, both of them breathing heavily and sweating like crazy]  
  
  
  
/Guess I'm wishin' my life away. . ./  
  
[He smiles and leans in closer, kissing her affectionately on her forehead]  
  
  
  
/With these things I'll never say/  
  
[He immediately takes off, leaving Buttercup to watch him depart, face flushed and a strained look of longing in her eyes]  
  
  
  
\music\  
  
[Camera pans up to stars, revolves once or twice, then pans down to an open window and cuts ot the interior of the room, where we see a bunk bed with its side up against the wall, Butch on the top one, Buttercup on the bottom]  
  
  
  
/It don't do me any good/  
  
[Butch has his head propped on an elbow on the top bunk supposedly talking to Buttercup, who has a disappointed look on her face]  
  
  
  
/It's just a waste of time/  
  
[He drops his head over the foot of his bunk, facing Buttercup upside down]  
  
  
  
/What use is it to you what's on my mind?/  
  
[She shrugs and lets her eyes drift to the open side of the bunk (opposite the wall)]  
  
  
  
/If it ain't comin' out/  
  
[Butch rolls his eyes, sighs, then flops back upward getting settled to fall asleep]  
  
  
  
/We're not goin' anywhere/  
  
[Buttercup's eyes trail back and she stares up at the bunk where Butch is now sleeping]  
  
  
  
/So why can't I just tell you that I care?/  
  
[She takes a deep breath and rolls over on her side facing the wall, looking throughly dejected all throughout]  
  
  
  
/'Cause I'm feelin' nervous/  
  
[Scene cuts to "present" Buttercup, stepping up to the door leading to their dorm, shaking her head and obviously disgusted with herself as she roughly stuffs the black skirt and shoes into her backpack]  
  
  
  
/Tryin' to be so perfect/  
  
[The door suddenly opens and Butch is heading out, apparently in a hurry, and Buttercup stumbles backward and lands on her butt on the floor]  
  
  
  
/'Cause I know you're worth it/  
  
[He smiles and pulls her up. She has an aggravated look on her face]  
  
  
  
/You're worth it/  
  
[He licks one of his hands, wraps the other arm around her waist and taps her rear with the former]  
  
  
  
/Yeah. . . /  
  
[Tilts his head]  
  
  
  
/If I could say what I wanna say/  
  
[She shoves him into the dorm and walks past him, apparently seething]  
  
  
  
/I'd say I wanna blow you. . ./  
  
[He shrugs and takes a few steps toward her]  
  
  
  
/AWAY/  
  
[And brings his foot up to kick her butt]  
  
  
  
/Be with you every night/  
  
[She swipes at him with her bag but hastily snatches it back after he grabs it from her and starts to unzip it]  
  
  
  
/Am I squeezin' you too tight/  
  
[She drops to the floor on her side in the fetal position clutching her bag, and in response he picks her up around the waist with her back to his chest and promptly drops her back to the ground on her butt]  
  
  
  
/If I could say what I wanna see/  
  
[He turns and starts walking away as she grimaces and begins scooching towards the closet, backpack in her arms]  
  
  
  
/I wanna see you go down. . ./  
  
[All of a sudden he tackles her again, and the pack slides out of her grasp and under the bunk bed]  
  
  
  
/ON ONE KNEE/  
  
[He pins her to the ground, smiling mischievously as Buttercup's mouth drops open and she starts blushing]  
  
  
  
/Marry me today/  
  
[He presses against her and her eyes go wide. Without taking her eyes off his face, she nods once]  
  
  
  
/Guess I'm wishin' my life away. . ./  
  
[He smiles at her and hops off, casually ambling to the door as she watches him leave]  
  
  
  
/With these things I'll never say. . ./  
  
[She flips over on her stomach, looking frustrated as she stares awhile at her backpack under the bed]  
  
  
  
=over the next few lines of the song we see flashbeats instead of one continual movie stream=  
  
  
  
/What's wrong with my tongue?/  
  
*Buttercup gets up and turns toward the door*  
  
*Close up of her face, with that same look of longing in her eyes from earlier*  
  
*Butch drops his luggage on the floor*  
  
*She has her back turned to him and her eyes, expressionless, on the wall*  
  
*Scene is night and as she pulls her pack out from under the bed his hand sweeps down over the side and lightly brushes her cheek*  
  
  
  
/These words keep slippin' away. . ./  
  
*Scene is morning and as Buttercup is in restroom trying on the skirt Butch barges in*  
  
*His arms are around her and zip up her skirt as she stares at him, trying not to blush (and failing miserably)*  
  
*Outside the restroom he tosses her the shirt*  
  
  
  
/I stutter I stumble. . ./  
  
*She steps out in his shirt with her sweatshirt crumpled against her chest*  
  
*She sighs and tosses it to him, but of course he doesn't catch it*  
  
*He squeezes his eyes shut and whirls around to avoid staring at her, turning red*  
  
*She smiles and he turns back toward her, cautious*  
  
*He gently knocks her back so she can sit on the bed as he tugs on her shoes for her*  
  
  
  
/Like I've got nothin' to say. . ./  
  
*He opens the door and bows regally*  
  
*In the hallway he takes her hand and starts leading her away*  
  
*She glances hastily at his hand holding hers and then up at him. Naturally he is completely oblivious to the intense look of sustained longing she's gazing at him with*  
  
  
  
=end flashbeats=  
  
  
  
/'Cause I'm feelin' nervous/  
  
[They stand in front of Kendall's dorm and Buttercup looks down at their hands and hastily snatches hers away, biting her lip and folding her hands over in front of her as Butch gives her a weird look]  
  
  
  
/Tryin' to be so perfect/  
  
[Kendall opens the door, and as Butch moves to kiss her Buttercup's eyes instantly dart to the side to avoid looking at them]  
  
  
  
/'Cause I know you're worth it/  
  
[Kendall smiles and hugs Buttercup and says something to her that results in a confused look from Buttercup and a kind smile from Kendall]  
  
  
  
/You're worth it/  
  
[Scene cuts to inside of Butch's car as Buttercup buckles up and takes a deep breath, looking at Butch just as he smiles evilly and floors it]  
  
  
  
/Yeah. . . !/  
  
[They peel out of the parking lot, tires screaming]  
  
  
  
=over THESE next few lines the clips are shown in one continual sequential strip=  
  
  
  
/La da da. . . etc./  
  
~(in the car)Buttercup turns her head and looks at Butch, surprised~  
  
~Buttercup curls her lip with disgust in front of the hair salon as Butch circles her, smiling~  
  
~Butch hovers over a stunned Buttercup, smiling thankfully as his pendant drops onto her neck~  
  
~(after hairstyling) Butch leans in to Buttercup's neck and inhales, whispering to her as she is visibly taken aback by his compliment~  
  
~(in Bath & Body Works)Buttercup growls and moves to strangle two young girls when Butch takes her arm and leads her out~  
  
~Butch tosses her some chapstick (or "lip balm," whatever) and she starts going off about its uselessness (still inaudible to audience, of course)~  
  
~Butch takes her face in his hands and applies the lip balm/chapstick/whatever the hell you wanna call it to Buttercup's lips, prompting her (of course) to silently panic~  
  
~They talk and laugh over lunch in the food court~  
  
~At a particularly low point in the conversation Butch pulls her head toward his over the table and whispers fiercely into her cheek as she, once again, tries to will herself to act natural~  
  
~Buttercup snatches his ice cream away as he props his legs on her lap~  
  
~She tosses him off and kicks him to the other side of walkway, blushign as he laughs~  
  
~A furious Buttercup drags him around till she decides to drop his head on the hard tile~  
  
  
  
=end continual sequential strip of random clips played hella fast=  
  
  
  
/Guess I'm wishin' my life away. . ./  
  
[Buttercup turns away, willing down her smile as a painful snese of hopelessness washes over her features]  
  
  
  
/With these things I'll never say/  
  
[Butch startles her out of her thoughts by leaning in and gazing at her, clearly concerned]  
  
  
  
/If I could say what I wanna say/  
  
[She grins nervously and waves it off, brushing past him, fear and panic evident in her eyes]  
  
  
  
/I'd say I wanna blow you. . ./  
  
[He suddenly snaps back at her, shocking her with his words]  
  
  
  
/AWAY/  
  
[Her head swivels up to look at him]  
  
  
  
/Be with you every night/  
  
[He takes a deep breath and speaks (still inaudibly) but it's apparent the word "confession" is what he's saying]  
  
  
  
/Am I squeezin' you too tight/  
  
[Buttercup's eyes widen and her mouth drops slightly. Everything around them, including people, suddenly are viewed in black and white, while the two of them remain in color]  
  
  
  
/If I could say what I wanna see/  
  
[He tilts his head and simles, and while seeming to stumble a bit on his words, we see a close-up of his mouth as it says "I WISH. . . "]  
  
  
  
/I wanna see you go down. . . ON ONE KNEE/  
  
[The color returns to everything, and as Butch turns and moves along with the crowd Buttercup slumps and we zoom in to her face, etched with shock and hurt and confusion]  
  
  
  
/Marry me today/  
  
[Still in a close up, Buttercup's face is crossed by something gold suddenly glinting in front of her, and it drops against her skin]  
  
  
  
/Guess I'm wishin' my life away. . ./  
  
[She turns to see Butch and lifts the pendant to her eyes, sadness washing over them as she manages a weak smile of gratitude]  
  
  
  
/With these things I'll never say. . ./  
  
[Butch smiles and takes he hand, still completely unaware of how absolutely miserable Buttercup is]  
  
  
  
/. . . with these things I'll never say. . ./  
  
[Buttercup desperately looks up at him, then lets her eyes drop to the floor, sighing heavily as the scene pauses and, while everything around her remains in color, including Butch, she fades to black and white]  
  
  
  
\final guitar strum, music ends\  
  
[The scene zooms out, and fades to black]  
  
  
  
-||end||-  
  
  
***  
  
see you in part 6. 


	7. Part VI

original authors' notes were cut due to length and overall rambling. you may read them at www.livejournal.com/users/songbirdjen  
  
provided there is an explanation for why i might be taking my sweet time updating this anytime soon ^^; sorry!  
  
being the author, tho, i feel the responsibility to tell you, the audience, that this part is. . . um, where the "heavy" stuff comes in. i might have to up the rating, but i'll leave that up to you to decide. in general, if you're reading, and you don't like where a certain scene later is going, feel free to skip that, ah, part. i won't mind :) it was hard for me to write, so i can see where it would be a difficult thing to read as well.  
  
still don't own the powerpuff girls. oh, but i bleeding wish.  
  
-jen  
  
  
  
*A Skirt for Sunday Evening* pt. VI ~-songbirdjen-~  
  
  
  
It is now 3:47 pm and Buttercup Utonium's heart is officially broken.  
  
Not more than ten minutes ago I made two important discoveries. One, Butch did not love me, and probably would never love me as anything more than his best friend. Two, despite my first important discovery, I realized that fact alone had not changed my feelings for him in any form, shape, or fashion. Even now my heart tremors at the sight of his calm and confident expression, the faint, comfortable scent of his clothing, his gaze, intense and dark and piercing in those bright, shimmering emeralds that were his eyes. . .  
  
. . . but stronger than the tremor was the pieces my heart fell to as I felt the cold green jade against my throbbing chest, as I sensed within him that ever present barrier separating love for a friend from love itself, as I replayed in my head the words "I wish" and "confess" because now *I* wished there had been no such confession that would break my heart as this one had.  
  
"And the band played on," I mutter under my breath, recalling the lyrics of some beautiful song. But the rest of the words fail me as I once again glance at my best friend and once again prompt my heart to splinter, like so many fragile shards of glass.  
  
***  
  
"Butch," I mumble listlessly, making little effort to catch his attention, which it doesn't. He just keeps on ambling casually, whistling to himself with his hands in his jeans.  
  
"Butch." I mean for it to sound louder, more assertive, but my voice can't seem to find the strength necessary for anything more than what comes out as a feeble plea. I breathe deeply for a moment, trying to gather my thoughts.  
  
I can't stay here. Not so close to him, at least not for now, all I wanna do is go home and change and get comfortable and play some on the PS2 and try to take my mind off of the tall handsome object of my affection that's only been plaguing my thoughts since that fateful Wednesday afternoon back in 7th grade. . .  
  
"Butch--"  
  
Suddenly he grabs my wrist and quickens his pace, dragging me along with him.  
  
"Butch, what are you--"  
  
We come to an abrupt stop. I only blink. "Hammocks?" I say incredulously.  
  
"YES!" Butch pumps his fist in the air and begins circling the area they've squared off in the middle of the walkway for the 'Green Eggs & Hammocks' semi-store that's attracted roughly a fourth of the regular mallgoers' attention today. Flocks of giggling children drop themselves in every available display hammock as their parents try, without much success, to pull them away.  
  
"Dude, it would be SO great to have one of these in our dorm," Butch comments as he eyes and gently strokes the netting of one particularly large hammock.  
  
I scoff. "Only problem is the campus won't permit us to drill the pike in the ceiling necessary to hold the thing up," I remind him.  
  
"My, you're quite the optimist, aren't you?" Butch remarks sarcastically, smirking at me.  
  
I slowly shake my head. "Not today," I say quietly, no smile on my face.  
  
Only Butch doesn't notice, because some guy who works here comes up offering assistance, and Butch asks him something to which the guy points at the hammock Butch was examining.  
  
"Oh, wow," Butch sighs after he deposits himself in the hammock, "now THIS is what I call relaxing. He motions toward me. "Come Buttercup," he beckons, sliding his hand along the side of the netting. "Join me in my happy little hammock." A smile, then a flash of his pearly whites with his tongue sticking out between them.  
  
You've got to hand it to my heart. It sure knows how to make me feel pathetic when I'm already crestfallen and heartbroken.  
  
"I highly doubt it will hold the two of us." Making excuses now. At least I'm managing to make THESE sound veritable, though.  
  
"It's built for two," Butch and the clerk he spoke to quip at the same time.  
  
I blink in confusion, looking back and forth between the two guys.  
  
"Man, Buttercup, you must really be out of it. He jus said five seconds ago this thing was specially designed for more than one person," Butch remarks, an incredulous look on his face. "So come on," he prompts, giving his knee a pat, "hop aboard."  
  
The thought of being close to him right now is unbearable. I take a step back and protest, "No, that's all--"  
  
Suddenly Butch snags me by my arms and quickly tugs me back, and once again my pathetic sense of balance works to his advantage. I stumble--well, it's more of a fall--into the mass of rope he himself is nestled in and find myself a split second later lying by his side, my head coincidentally landing on his shoulder, neither of us bothering to stifle our laughter as we rock and spin uncontrollably in the unsteady recliner.  
  
'It still feels so wonderful,' I think to myself, burying my face in his shirt and laughing harder. 'Feels so right with our bodies so close, his arms around me, my head finding that perfect spot on his collar to fall upon.'  
  
My laughter dies down but the smile fails to leave my face. 'How could I not be happy with this?' I silently wonder. 'This is the best of what he has to offer me, and who am I to ask for more than what we already have?'  
  
His arms slide away, as does the rest of him, and he stands up and asks that same male clerk a question.  
  
I lay back watching them but not really following the conversation. 'Am I really so greedy, so selfish, that I would expect the best friend of my life to return my feelings for him just because I feel I need it in order to be happy?'  
  
I reach up a hand to tug at my hair. 'But I can't just drop those feelings because he can't return them,' I think, my brow furrowing. Their roots are so long, so deep. . .  
  
'So. . . maybe. . . maybe staying this way isn't so bad.'  
  
I just had to be careful that I never got my hopes up, never set myself up for a confession or anything of a similar nature that would end, inevitably, in heartbreak, at least for me.  
  
'Can I really do that?'  
  
Watching him now as he turns and smiles at me, I can't help but smile back and affirm to myself 'It's worth it.'  
  
Even if it's nothing more than his friendship, it's worth it.  
  
No, not 'it.' He. He's worth it.  
  
"Ready to go, Buttercup?" he asks, extending a hand. I sit up and reach for it but something lightly jerks my head back. "Oh, God," I groan, smiling. "One of the damn buns is caught--"  
  
My words give way to more laughter as Butch smiles and leans a bit closer, gently tugging here and there and before I know it, I'm free.  
  
"My knight in shining armor," I can't help but whisper with a smile as he lifts me to my feet.  
  
He blushes and smiles nervously at my words as he hastily unwraps his arms from around me, and for a brief moment there's that familiar glimmer of hope. But I quickly shoot it down in my mind, rightfully assuring myself that he's only embarrassed and flattered by my speech. . .  
  
Trying to remedy the awkward situation I've created, I turn towards the hammock I was just rescued from and remark, "This WOULD be a lot of fun in the dorm."  
  
"Yeah," Butch agrees, his hand sin his jeans' back pockets. "But. . . maybe some other time. Thanks, man," he says, turning to the clerk who assisted us, who, with a quick "No prob" turns to help another customer.  
  
***  
  
"So," I say, clearing my throat after a few minutes of walking in silence, "whaddaya wanna do now?"  
  
He pauses a moment and glances at me, a look of concentration on his face. "Well," he starts, his gaze darting elsewhere, but almost immediately it flies back to me. With a peculiar expression etched in his features, he stares at me, and continues to do so until I feel downright uncomfortable under the intensity of his eyes.  
  
"Um. . . what's wrong?" I lightly wipe at my cheek. "Is there something on my face?"  
  
As if snapping out of a dream, Butch blinks several times and directs his attention face front again. "No, it's not that," he says hastily, clearly frustrated, and the notion that the source of that frustration is me is nothing short of unsettling.  
  
"What is it, then?" I ask immediately, quickening my pace to match his steps.  
  
His brow furrows a bit. "I--maybe I'll tell you later, I'm just thinking a bit."  
  
Genuine smile time again. A chill runs down my spine.  
  
"You know what happens when I get to thinking."  
  
"Hell freezes over?" I offer.  
  
"And the devil gives free sleigh rides," he finishes, a fatal note in his tone. "But about what we can do in the couple of hours we have left--"  
  
He pauses and grins mischievously at me.  
  
"Let's go to Victoria's Secret and pick me up some underwear."  
  
***  
  
"I don't think we've EVER been kicked out of that store THAT fast," I grumble, a bit indignant.  
  
"I swear, women have absolutely NO sense of humor when it comes to lingerie," Butch complains, rolling his eyes with just as indignant an expression as mine. "No offense, Buttercup."  
  
"None taken."  
  
He rummages around in his pocket and pulls out a coin, expertly flipping it up in the air and catching it again as we walk. "Hold up a moment, Buttercup," he says, lightly touching my arm. "You can't pass a fountain without making a wish."  
  
In two steps he stands poised at the mall fountain's edge, water burbling in a stream shooting about three feet high from the surface. The water sloshes at the sides, little waves rippling back and forth from the edge back to its center.  
  
"How much you wanna bet I'll cut that center one right in the middle?"  
  
"A homemade margarita," I calmly reply, leaning back to watch the master at work.  
  
Much head-shaking ensues. "Well, damn, now I HAVE to hit it."  
  
He bites his lip and squints at his target, jerking his wrist back a few times in preparation to shoot.  
  
Naturally his stance would take my breath away, I assure myself, willfully suppressing the feelings that in any other case would torture me and tug at my heartstrings.  
  
Not to say there isn't any such tugging going on now, but I've gotten good at pretending things are what they aren't with years and years of experience.  
  
"All right then. Eight ball, side pocket," Butch sneers, and gives his wrist a sharp flick.  
  
The slim copper penny shoots out of his hand and skips across the water's glassy surface, leaving a neat trail of tiny ripples in its wake. Just as he said, it slices through the heart of the bubbling stream clean as a whistle, a break in the water appearing for a split second before replenishing itself. The coin skips a few more times before sliding under the surface and spinning a bit as it slowly sinks to the bottom.  
  
I nod in approval. "Well done. What'd you wish for?"  
  
"A margarita." Follow-up with his classic smirk. "Actually I didn't wish for anything. So," he reaches back into his pocket and produces another penny, "I'll have to have another go at it." He tosses the coin to me, taking me by surprise, but I catch it one-handed regardless. "There's a penny for your wish."  
  
I click my tongue against my teeth. "I'd prefer to spend it on your thoughts."  
  
His head lowers but his eyes stay on my face, voice darkening considerably.  
  
"They'd be very, VERY dirty thoughts, my dear," he whispers dangerously, running his tongue over his lips and leaning in to me.  
  
Do the words "mind-shattering sex appeal" come to mind?  
  
Heart pounding like crazy. Mouth going dry. Breath being squeezed out of my lungs.  
  
Despite all those effects his demeanor is having on me I manage a nervous laugh and gingerly push him back.  
  
You'd think I'd be able to will my body to stop trembling after that little pep talk I gave myself back in the hammock, but. . .  
  
. . . I guess what they say is true, that old habits die hard.  
  
"What are you gonna wish for, really?" I ask him, attempting to direct my mind's focus to something else.  
  
Once again, his hand goes into his pocket. "Um, apparently nothing."  
  
My brow furrows and I throw him a funny look. "What makes you say that?"  
  
He turns his pockets inside out and shrugs. "Outta change."  
  
"Then here." I flip the coin back in his direction, which he briefly attempts to play hacky-sack with but ends up having to sweep it up in his hand before it rolls into the water. "I'll make my wish some other time. Not like I had anything in mind I really wanted anyway," I say, with some difficulty in speaking that last part.  
  
'Except you.'  
  
"Nonsense. I refuse," he protests. "Like I said, you can't pass a fountain without making a wish."  
  
"What's gonna happen to your wish, then?" I counter.  
  
Another flash of his special genuine smile and my body goes numb.  
  
"I'm already spending the day with YOU, aren't I?"  
  
My mouth falls open a bit and I blink several times, feeling the color flood my face. I turn towards the fountain, the still-smiling Butch at my left, eyes darting around in a panic as I order myself ACT NATURAL YOU'RE ONLY FRIENDS STOP SETTING YOURSELF UP JUST STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT--  
  
"You know," Butch suddenly says at my side, "if you really want me to get a wish too we'll just share the penny."  
  
And he lifts up my arm and crooks his own over mine, the penny pressed between our hands.  
  
The bizarre notion that 'if we had fingers they'd be intertwined right now' crosses my mind.  
  
"On the count of three we drop it and make a wish. Okay?" he suggests, closing his eyes and raising our arms above the fountain's edge.  
  
At first I nod but quickly realize I'm being an idiot since he can't see me anyway, so I clear my throat and stammer, "Uh, s-sure."  
  
"You count us off, and don't forget to close your eyes." I obediently comply, swallowing the lump that's gathering in my throat.  
  
'I had no idea it'd be so difficult to do this. . . '  
  
"One. . ."  
  
'. . . I thought I told myself I wouldn't get my hopes up over every little thing he does that touches that piece of me deep in my chest. . . '  
  
"Two. . . "  
  
'. . . but why is it so hard to do? I only told myself to stop five minutes ago and already my resolve is wearing itself down! I can't bear being so close to him and still disregard the feeling that tears at my insides whenever he's around me--'  
  
"THREE."  
  
I urgently release the penny and in doing so release Butch, as if I were afraid that one or the other would sear into my flesh at any given moment. My eyes fly open just as the penny plops into the water, sending tiny waves out that are soon overwhelmed by the larger ones emanating from the center. I wipe my sweaty hands against the seat of my skirt, throwing a quick look at Butch, who's just now slowly opening his eyes.  
  
Blinking a few times, he allows himself a small smile and heave what sounds like a little sigh as he stares at his reflection in the water. His gaze shifts to my reflection and he looks up at me, broadening his smile a bit.  
  
"Well then," he starts, spinning around to maneuver his way back into the traffic of the mall. He doesn't bother finishing, so his words hang in the empty space between us.  
  
Trailing behind him I lick my lips nervously, trying to work out exactly HOW I'm supposed to follow up to my self-chat earlier when he can STILL generate such an incredible surge of emotion within me. However, the realization that I was focusing so much on him back at the fountain that I forgot to make my wish quickly crosses my mind, and for reasons I can't quite explain the mere thought of it alone disappoints me more than it probably should.  
  
'Maybe your subconscious made a wish for you,' I think to myself, half- joking, half-terrified.  
  
Half-joking because part of me doubts I did.  
  
Half-terrified because the rest of me knows that if my subconscious DID act without warning, it would've wished for the very thing I know for certain I could not have.  
  
"So what'd you wish for THIS time?" I ask in what I hope sounds like a casual voice.  
  
"You know I'm not supposed to tell; it won't come true." He throws me a sideways smirk. "Nosy woman."  
  
I slap him upside the head. "How derogatory."  
  
"Well, it's good to see you're not mad at me anymore."  
  
I blink. "Whaddya mean?"  
  
He scratches his head. "Okay. I could've worded that better. 'At least you're not upset anymore.' How's that?"  
  
I cross my arms. "I wasn't upset."  
  
"You know, you're a really horrible liar, Buttercup." He skids to a stop in front of me. "You think you can pull a fast one on your best friend?" Cue the infamous act of innocence. He cocks his head and smiles childishly, digging the toe of his shoe into the ground.  
  
My heart quivers a bit uncontrollably, but all I do is stand there looking stupidly at him, totally helpless.  
  
Another smile. "But you seem to be in a better mood now, so forget I said anything," he says, tossing his arms up in the air. "Though. . . " He turns and looks at me, serious. "You realize that if there's something you need to tell me, you shouldn't have second thoughts about it. Just. . . you can tell me, you know?" Gradually he lifts his hand and gingerly touches my chin.  
  
Still speechless.  
  
But now my heart is throbbing rather painfully in the nether regions of my chest. Fat lot of good my rational reasoning earlier in the hammock store did.  
  
His hand moves from my chin to my lips, tapping them softly.  
  
"No secrets," he whispers, lifting away his hand (to my delight and yet to my dismay) to rest over his own parted mouth. "Right?"  
  
Right.  
  
He slyly tilts his head in the other direction and gives a quick nod in the direction he wants to go. "We've still got some time left, Buttercup. How's about we hit the arcade?"  
  
***  
  
"I cannot believe you have convinced me to do this," I mutter with a smile as he rolls the quarters into their respective slots. "I haven't played this since high school."  
  
Butch only laughs gleefully, rubbing his hands together.  
  
"Not to MENTION," I continue, "that I'm in a SKIRT and can't possibly do this in the shoes I'm in. . . " I reach down and tug off each one, tossing them aside. A small crowd is already gathering around us, ready to witness us both make complete and total asses of ourselves.  
  
"Aw, you're just making excuses because you KNOW I'm gonna win," Butch sneers, stepping up on the platform.  
  
I glare at him. "Right. Whatever you say. . . " I step up onto my own platform. "BITCH."  
  
He throws me a dark glance and pounds the button. "SELECT A SONG!" the speakers blare, catching the attention of anyone who wasn't already part of the continually growing crowd of people surrounding us.  
  
Okay, so I'll admit it. I'm not the best at Dance Dance Revolution. Blossom is.  
  
Well, Blossom and Brick tied.  
  
A frequent casual hobby of mine and Butch's back in high school had been to start DDR tournaments that led to all-out war between the two top DDR'ers in all of Townsville. While Brick and Blossom exhausted themselves trying to best each other at some stupid little game, the rest of us would calmly watch on the sidelines, partaking in the rather amusing displays of verbal and, if we were lucky, physical carnage, though by the time it got to that the two main stars were already too worn out to move.  
  
"Ah, the memories this brings back," my opponent reminisces with a content sigh.  
  
I nod in agreement. "I don't quite believe I would ever have gotten so good at this had the desire to set those two up for disaster not been there to motivate me."  
  
"Well said. And I'll permit you choose the song," he says, bowing reverently, "since I'll kick your ass regardless."  
  
I make my selection without looking at the screen, eyes on Butch. "We'll just see about that."  
  
***  
  
"Man, woman, I am wiping the FLOOR with you on this one!" he exclaims, smiling as he stomps out the incoming sequence with his usual grace and flair.  
  
"Oh, puh-LEASE," I groan loudly, rolling my eyes. "This coming from a guy whose highest combo so far has been a measly 117!"  
  
"My eyes went out of focus! It happens!"  
  
"Whatever." I quickly scan the rest of the screen and turn my back on it, finishing out the song backwards. A few people in the audience we have amassed over the past six matches start cheering.  
  
"Showoff," Butch growls playfully as the song ends.  
  
"Bite me." I turn back around and stick my tongue out at him. Our grades flash on the screen.  
  
Both A's. Naturally.  
  
"Up for another?" he asks me, hand poised over the quarter slot at the ready.  
  
I shake my head and step off. "No, I think I'm all DDR'ed out. So who wins?"  
  
"Well, you've basically forfeited, so I automatically am made the undisputed champion!"  
  
I jab him in the gut. "Dork."  
  
"Wuss."  
  
"Loser!"  
  
"Woman!"  
  
"Aw, hell." I pick up my shoes and jam my hand in his jean pocket.  
  
"Buttercup! Not here!" he gasps, eyes flashing mischievously.  
  
I shove him off, ignoring the blush on the verge of tinting my face. "Shut up, I'm just getting some quarters for myself, you dumb shit," I snarl, smiling as I pull my shoes back on.  
  
Shrug. "Suit yourself." He turns and reaches his quarter toward the slot again when all of a sudden a midriff-baring blonde with legs a mile long rolls hers in, taking the platform I was just on.  
  
She giggles and lowers her eyes at Butch. "I think I can take you on."  
  
He raises an invisible eyebrow. "Oh really?"  
  
My lip curls in disgust and I step away out of the crowd as the music starts up again. For some reason I suddenly need to vent. God, do I ever need to vent.  
  
I find a shooting game and instantly jam my quarter in its slot, taking the gun and cocking it. Zombies and flying monsters barrage the screen, and with a few expert shots every one of them lies headless on the ground.  
  
Off in the distance a screaming victim is being dragged by a limping zombie, which I promptly make easy work of. The victim gets up and runs toward the screen and I scowl.  
  
A blonde haired, midriff baring teenage girl with legs a mile long.  
  
Go figure.  
  
"Thank you for saving me!" the computerized girl says just as the one who challenged Butch giggles somewhere behind me, and whether it's by reflex or something else I'm not sure, but I blow the head off the lady I just rescued, sickeningly pleased with myself as she falls to the ground.  
  
"Penalty: one life bar," flashes on the screen, and one of the five green bars at the bottom blinks red and then dims.  
  
"Was worth it," I mutter, cringing as the real-life blonde behind me whines.  
  
"Oh, you're SO good at this," she pouts. "SOOOO much better than me."  
  
"Well, I've had a lot of practice," Butch says sheepishly, and I riddle the advancing monsters with invisible bullets.  
  
"You mean with your girlfriend over there?" the girl suddenly asks, and even though no one's looking at me my face suddenly glows bright red and out of nowhere a zombie suddenly manages to get in a hit, and another life bar goes red. Recovering, I fire the gun twice and the zombie falls.  
  
"Dammit," I mumble, giving my head some time to cool but still listening with half an ear.  
  
"You mean Buttercup? She's just my friend," Butch hastily corrects, and a little sigh of disappointment escapes me; he didn't have to deny it that urgently even if I WAS just his friend did he?  
  
"Oh really?" Suddenly the girl's voice reassumes the 'flirt' tone. "So. . . she wouldn't mind if I told you I thought you were tall, dark, and incredibly handsome?"  
  
I growl and blast the head off another blonde female victim. My third life bar goes down, but DAMN it feels so GOOD.  
  
"Actually, she probably would," Butch admits.  
  
"Damn straight," I grumble, shooting my way through the living undead's mansion.  
  
The relentless blonde doesn't really respond, but my hearing catches a thoughtful "Mm. . . " resonating in her throat.  
  
Out of spite I immediately shoot down two more of the helpless female victims and a countdown appears on the screen, prompting me to insert a second quarter. I do so and continue my game, silently vowing to myself that should any more blonde 'innocents' taint my line of vision I will do all I mentally can to keep myself from gunning them down and wasting valuable money.  
  
From the way things sound their DDR game is over, and Butch (obviously) seems to have won.  
  
"Well, it was a good game, miss," he says politely, and my heart thrills at the fact that he isn't flirting back with that little--  
  
"Call me Delilah," the girl giggles.  
  
"That name sounds like it belongs to a porn star, DEE-LYE-LAH," I scoff quietly, and I end up hitting another victim.  
  
Whoops.  
  
Big loss.  
  
So much for avoiding the 'innocents.'  
  
I hear Butch start to respond, but two other girls' voices catch my attention.  
  
"Jesus that boy is FINE," one of them growls, and every moving creature on my video screen instantly falls.  
  
Another life bar goes down. I must've hit another innocent bystander.  
  
My bad.  
  
I smoothly shoot the gun off screen to reload.  
  
"Yeah, I hear you, but he's taken, Trace," another female voice says in response to the first.  
  
Trace, whoever the hell she is, snorts. "Oh, come on. He just told Delilah they're only friends. Besides, they look so much alike, they're probably brother and sister."  
  
BAMBAMBAM!  
  
Three more girls hit the dirt, missing various parts of their anatomy.  
  
The countdown appears again. I think I killed more victims than I did actual zombies that time.  
  
I reach for the ledge of the game where I put the quarters but my hand comes up empty.  
  
I look down, disbelieving. "The hell?! I only grabbed TWO friggin' quarters from his pocket?!"  
  
As if by magic Butch appears at my side, smiling. He deposits the remainder of his quarters on the ledge where mine had been, plucks two quarters from the pile and rolls them both in the coin slot.  
  
"Let's do some good old fashioned monster ass kicking," he sneers, taking his own gun from its holster.  
  
"They're ZOMBIES, Einstein," I smirk, my initial rage instantly dwindling. I shoot the screen and continue my character, giving Butch an expectant look.  
  
He takes off his plaid overshirt and drapes it over his shoulder, and, upon seeing my confused stare, shrugs and says, "I got sweaty doing DDR. Can't I cool off for a bit?"  
  
"Whatever." I take aim and start firing, and he lifts his gun to shoot and start his own character when we're RUDELY interrupted by Delilah and her co- whores.  
  
I'm sorry, I meant cohorts.  
  
. . . No, wait. Co-whores is right.  
  
She snatches his overshirt form his shoulder and out of the corner of my eye I see him turn around just as she slips it onto her frame. "Bitch," I grumble so quietly even Butch doesn't hear me. I take the rest of my anger out on yet another innocent bystander on the screen.  
  
"Uh, excuse me, but I believe that's mine," he says, a bit amused, but more aggravated than anything else.  
  
Delilah the Girl With A Porn Star's Name giggles and cocks her head. "Aw, but if fits me perfectly," she says seductively (EUGH), a grin playing her lips. She leans in a bit closer to him and adds, "Just like you."  
  
"Jesus Christ," I mutter, and Butch briefly flashes me an apologetic smile.  
  
"As much as you like it," he says, turning back to Delilah, "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask for it back."  
  
"We'll give it back to you on one condition," a familiar voice says, two more girls appearing at Delilah's side, one blonde and one brunette. The two I heard talking earlier.  
  
Butch frowns. "One condition?"  
  
"Yeah," the brunette nods. She must be Trace. "Ditch your galpal and come spend some quality time with us."  
  
The plastic gun quakes violently in my hands and I viciously blast my way through any living obstruction on screen.  
  
Butch catches this and sighs. "Look, ladies, I'm flattered, but--"  
  
"What's the matter?" the other blonde perks up. "She's just a friend, isn't she? Besides," and she slides a finger up his chest, "me, Trace, and Delilah? WE could be SO much more than friends."  
  
With a very audible growl I willfully suppress the insatiable urge I have at the moment to rip each of them apart and channel it instead through my game.  
  
I almost feel sorry for the walking zombies. Sorrier for them than the blonde victims, at least.  
  
He stares at her a moment before brushing her hand away and saying, quite blandly, "Yes, well, you see, Buttercup isn't just any old friend." He places a hand on my shoulder. "She's my BEST friend." I allow myself a small smile and catch him winking at me.  
  
"Um, I don't think you quite get--"  
  
"NO, *I* don't think YOU quite get it," Butch interrupts, his smile fading and his voice chilling over. "As NICE--" and he drawls out the word with a hiss and sarcasm steaming off every letter "--as it would be to spend time with you LOVELY three ladies. . . I'm gonna hafta decline."  
  
My inner self turns cartwheels and does backflips in my mind.  
  
My physical self happily shoots away at the living undead and the like.  
  
"Now if you'll excuse me," Butch continues, and raises his right hand, beckoning with it, "I have a game to get to, so if you would be so kind as to return me my SHIRT--"  
  
Rustling is heard, and all of a sudden something drops on my head and over my eyes, cutting my line of vision.  
  
"Fine," Delilah says, ice laced in her voice. "TAKE IT."  
  
My little plastic gun drops from my hand sand clatters against the side of game.  
  
I rip his shirt from off my head and shove it at Butch, whipping around with my teeth grit and anger rapidly building up in chest. My feet lift themselves from the floor and I start to hover, muscles tensing to overtake the slimy little scumbags with their backs now facing me when Butch grabs me and pins me in his arms, muttering at me to calm down and not make a scene.  
  
"BUT--" I start to protest--  
  
"NO, Buttercup." He gives me a pointed glare and shakes his head. "Leave it alone; it ain't worth it."  
  
I narrow my eyes and drop back to the ground, still seething.  
  
"You can let go, Butch."  
  
"Um, maybe not just yet. Your eye is twitching."  
  
"Have fun with your GIRLFRIEND tonight, sweetheart," Trace calls over her shoulder without turning around.  
  
I wriggle out of Butch's grasp, bring both hands to the sides of my mouth, and holler, "SORRY!"  
  
Delilah and her co-whores turn around, their little makeup overdone faces wrinkled with confusion.  
  
I lean back and smile. "I don't have the privilege to bear that title, but I'll be sure to tell his REAL girlfriend ALL about you three when we get back--" I narrow my eyes and sneer "--SWEETHEARTS."  
  
They only cross their arms and walk away, noses in the air.  
  
I spin around on one foot and retrieve my gun, cocking my head at Butch and smiling. "Now about that game. . . "  
  
With a wide grin and a shake of his head, he lifts his own pistol out of it's metal holster and comments dryly, "I've said it before and I'll say it again: Too slick, Buttercup. You are TOO slick."  
  
***  
  
"You know, we're making some pretty good time on these little bastards," Butch says to me as we clear another level and relax a bit as our statistics grace the screen. "And I'm proud of you, Buttercup. You didn't hit a single victim that time."  
  
"Losing my touch, I know," I respond, giving him a meaningful glance, which he returns with a heartstopping smile.  
  
I press my lips thinly together and jerk my head back at the screen, taking a deep breath. "Oh look, our accuracy rates," I say abruptly, praying my voice keeps steady.  
  
Butch shifts his weight and follows my intent gaze. "84%. Not bad, Buttercup."  
  
"Well, I can hardly say that's anything compared to 97%," I compliment, staring in awe at Butch's half of the screen.  
  
He gives a short laugh. "You could say I get a lot of practice with my 'job'," he quietly replies, and his gaze shifts down to the pile of quarters we have left. "Man. I'd say we have about twenty of these suckers left."  
  
"And only one last level to go." I smile wryly. "Betcha we take this last guy down in five."  
  
"Make that two."  
  
"You're on."  
  
***  
  
"I CANNOT believe we've spent all our quarters on this dumb son of a bitch!" Butch cringes and reloads his gun, firing a considerable amount of bullets into our opponents' chest. He responds by taking down one of Butch's life bars. "Dammit! That was my last one!"  
  
"Then grab another quarter!" I snap. Without Butch to back me up I'm DOOMED against this guy--  
  
"There ARE no more quarters!"  
  
"Hit the change machine!"  
  
"I'm not breaking a $20 just for one God damn quarter!"  
  
"Then ask someone!" Suddenly two of my four remaining life bars dim. "Hurry up!"  
  
"Just finish him out yourself! You only need a few more hits and he's dead!"  
  
"A few more hits and I'LL be dead, you NUMBSKULL! I need you here to back me up! SHIT!" I'm down to one lonely little green bar. "BUTCH!" I continue to fire away while he frantically searches his pockets.  
  
"Aw, screw this," he mutters, stepping back form the game and throwing his hands up in the air.  
  
"WHAT?! NO!!! We're so CLOSE to--"  
  
My words stick in my throat as I feel his arms slide up around mine to hold my gun. His hands rest firmly on mine and start controlling my movements, expertly taking aim and firing like a sharpshooter.  
  
"You need me to back you up," he whispers, the air puffing from his mouth disturbing the tiny little hairs on the nape of my neck, "I'll back you up."  
  
And my heart--LITERALLY--has stopped.  
  
I'm not even controlling the damn gun anymore.  
  
I watch as his arms twitch and jerk from one side of the screen to the other, hand squeezing against the trigger to fire, only it's not the trigger he's squeezing, but my hand which is on the trigger, and his arms are on mine, and his chest on my back, and his legs curling along the back of my legs so closely that even his knees are perfectly crooked behind mine, and that's all I can feel, his perfect god-like frame snugly enveloping me like a shell, the warmth rising in my body as his cheek presses against mine and he's so close I can almost TASTE the sweat on his skin so close soclose SOCLOSE--  
  
Suddenly his muscles relax and his grip on the gun slackens.  
  
"We win," he whispers, his words rolling off his lips and onto my hot skin.  
  
We. I always liked that word.  
  
I can't respond; I only watch as the cheesy ending sequence plays itself out and the credits begin to roll. The game is over, but Butch, he. . . he. . .  
  
. . . is still holding me.  
  
"And you didn't think we'd beat the guy," he affectionately teases, turning his head ever so slightly and nudging my cheek with his lips.  
  
My whole body goes rigid at the contact.  
  
'What about just being friends, Buttercup?!' I scream in my head. 'STOP SETTING YOURSELF UP, GODDAMMIT!!!'  
  
"Butch, what--" I try to choke out but my words don't carry. He continues to nuzzle my cheek with his soft, sweet lips WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON--  
  
"You Goddamn pessimist," he growls playfully, his smooth mouth forming the words against my skin. . . then he lowers his head so his brow presses against my temple and his lips slide away form my cheek and his eyes, his pretty bright green eyes pierce my one right eye and MY GOD HE'S SO CLOSE TO ME. . . !!!  
  
His eyes dart sharply back to the screen and he turns his head back to the front.  
  
Whether my sigh is due to relief or disappointment is difficult to say.  
  
"Wouldja lookit that?" A smile graces his features. "We got the top rank."  
  
And before I have a chance to respond he lifts our arms and fires three times without blinking or batting an eye. The list scrolls up, and there we are at the top.  
  
B&B.  
  
"Well!" Butch steps back and releases me, and suddenly my body feels cold and unprotected. "What a victory THAT was. We even have it forever immortalized deep in the bowels of the machine. Good work--" he bumps his hip against mine and winks "--partner."  
  
I somehow manage to crack a smile.  
  
"Say, what's your damage, Buttercup? You've been all quiet-like fer--"  
  
The sharp trill of his cell phone cuts the air. "And that would be Kendall," Butch says, tugging his phone out of his back pocket, flipping it open, and bringing it up to the side of his face. "Jellystone Park, Yogi Bear speaking," he answers with a wide grin. "Hey, babe, what's up--"  
  
I tune him out as he turns a bit and drop my gun back in its holster.  
  
'This is. . . a lot more difficult than I thought it would be.'  
  
I thought. . . I thought I could deal with the status quo, thought I could live with it, but. . . how can I when he's so. . . so. . .  
  
How CAN I?  
  
I sigh and take a few steps, slouching my shoulders a bit as Butch's voice fades behind me, tiny pinpricks piercing my heart with every inch I travel. I make my way to the entrance of the arcade, staring out into the mall itself. Many of the stores' lights have started dimming, and a few are already pulling down their security gates. Small groups of people are filtering out the exits, laden down with their purchases.  
  
How quaint.  
  
I take a quick glance at the mall's clock--5:53. Almost closing time.  
  
I shuffle over a bit as people start leaving the arcade and rest my head on the floor-to-ceiling glass windows at the entrance. My eyes focus and unfocus, trailing up and down the length of the glass, and then rest upon the figure of Butch in the background, watching as he smiles and laughs into his cell phone.  
  
I heave another heavy sigh and blink, Butch disappearing from my line of sight.  
  
And then. . . something funny, some strange, weird feeling runs down my spine, chilling me all of a sudden. My eyes dart around, scanning the area like a hawk, my superhero abilities kicking in as I tense, alert, ready to attack should any form of danger rear its ugly head--  
  
All of a sudden I spot what's putting me at such ill ease in the glass. Past Butch two guys are standing in a dark corner, and it's difficult for me to really focus on what they look like, but it's obvious what they're doing. . .  
  
They're staring right at me.  
  
My entire body tenses again and I turn around slowly, cautiously, locating the real two guys in my peripheral vision. I adjust my head so I'm glaring straight at them, eyes narrowing and glowering daggers, but neither of them breaks eye contact, clearly unintimidated. The shorter of the two suddenly smiles maliciously at me, while the taller one, now that I'm watching them, lets his eyes rove shamelessly up and down my body.  
  
Sickening.  
  
My lip curls and a guilty blush rises to my cheeks, rage all but evident in my expression, and I brace myself to beat the living shit out of those bastards and thus show them EXACTLY what I think of them when Butch flips his cell phone shut and approaches me, all a grin.  
  
"You know Kendall's an absolute ANGEL."  
  
I snap out of it, turning my attention to Butch. "Whaddaya mean?"  
  
"She got us that dinner reservation just like I asked her to," he informs me as we walk out of the arcade, the memory of those two perverts fading quickly from my mind. "ONLY--" he adds "--she didn't set them at the place *I* asked her to. So tonight. . . " he pauses for dramatic effect ". . . we dine at the HORIZON."  
  
Um. . . surprise? "That's. . . down by the lake, isn't it?"  
  
"Indeed it is," he nods, clicking his tongue. "She thought we oughtta eat somewhere special before the trip."  
  
"I. . . can't say I've ever been there before."  
  
"Me either. See, she thought we deserved a better place to eat than Hooters."  
  
My head whips to face him. "You wanted to go to HOOTERS?!?!"  
  
"Why not?" A smirk appears at the corner of his mouth and his eyelids lower, questioning me. "It's a family restaurant."  
  
I cross my arms defiantly. "Butch, I know for a FACT the majority of people who go to Hooters have little intention of enjoying their FOOD."  
  
"Of course not. They go there to enjoy the great atmosphere."  
  
I shake my head. "PIG."  
  
He sighs. "Whatever. Let's blow outta here. Looks like the damn place is ready to go underground."  
  
"No shit, Sherlock. It's CLOSING."  
  
"Blah blah blah," he mimics in a high falsetto. "Let's just go, man."  
  
"Merrily."  
  
***  
  
"Dude, lemme make one quick pit stop before we leave."  
  
"The hell?! You barely ate or drank a THING!"  
  
"Butch, my hands feel like shit after handling those grimy little quarters and germ-ridden plastic guns. Just gimme a sec to wash my hands. In fact, you go ahead to the car an' I'll meetcha there."  
  
"If you say so." He shrugs and starts off again.  
  
"And have the AC running when I get there too!" I holler. "None of this 'windows rolled down' shit you always like to pull! Humidity's too friggin' high."  
  
"It saves energy!" he calls back.  
  
***  
  
Standing in front of the mirror while drying my hands I notice my hair is a freakish mess. I lift a hand and smooth the strands back into place, lightly patting each bun.  
  
After a brief moment of further inspection I pull a few strands back to the sides of my face, letting them hang in light wisps about my eyes, their tips kissing my skin. I tug my shirt down a bit and smooth out the wrinkles, giving the buttons a few adjusting twists before turning my attention to the skirt, brushing off some lint and adjusting that too when I suddenly stop, look back at my face in the mirror in surprise, and start shaking my head.  
  
"What the HELL do you think you're doing, Buttercup," I growl, hurling my paper towel to the floor and stomping out the door.  
  
'As if it matters,' a familiar voice inside my head taunts me. 'As if he'll notice, as if he'll care, as if he could give any less of a GOD DAMN SHIT-- "  
  
I fall back against the wall, resting my head in my hands and sighing. With a deep breath and a rather unsuccessful attempt to not think of him I lift myself and pause for a drink at the water fountain.  
  
I shake the bangs out of my eyes as I adjust my posture a bit to drink properly when suddenly out of nowhere a hand slides around my midsection and presses itself to my stomach and another hand runs up my thigh and takes the liberty of resting itself on my butt.  
  
I instantly whirl around and punch my attacker clear into the wall, but not hard enough to make a dent in it. I furiously wipe at the corner of my mouth with my sleeve, coughing a bit from the water I swallowed the wrong way when he grabbed me.  
  
"HO-LEE SHIT!" he groans, rubbing the side of his face. "The bitch has one HELL of a right hook on her--umph!"  
  
I grab his collar and pound his back against the wall. "Care to say that again?" I threaten, gritting my teeth and narrowing my eyes. He blinks at me, shocked, and suddenly my eyes widen.  
  
". . . You were one of the guys watching me in the arcade," I remark incredulously, recognition awash on my features. My face hardens again. "What the hell do you think--"  
  
"You'll have to pardon my friend here," a voice behind me says apologetically, and I twist around to see the taller of the two I saw calmly walking towards me. "It's just. . . well, he tends to get a tad overexcited when he sees--or, WE see--a pretty girl. And you--" his eyes trailed up and down my body again and hatred seared in my lungs "--are a VERY pretty little girl if I do say so myself."  
  
I drop his friend to the floor and shove past him. "Stuff it."  
  
"Oh, who? Me or him?" he jeers suggestively, and I stop dead in my tracks, my eyes widening and a hot blush breaking out over my skin.  
  
'He--he didn't mean--he COULDN'T have meant--'  
  
"Now, I've got to say--" he continues "--that we certainly don't MIND aggressive types like yourself." With a few steps he strides in front of me, looking me dead center in the eye. "In fact, your kind usually possess more--shall we say, STAMINA than other girls? Typically your average young lady lasts only a couple, maybe three times, but the aggressive ones, shit, they can go for HOURS and HOURS on into the night--"  
  
"You sicko," I whisper in disgust, backing away from him and straight into his shorter friend, who latches his arms around my stomach and laughs as he twists my arm around and smashes my front into the wall.  
  
"So," he laughs again, pressing his teeth to the back of my neck, "are YOU a fresh one? Or has your boyfriend already gotten his hands on your goods?"  
  
Blinding white rage surges through me, and God I want this pervert OFF ME OFF ME OFF ME--!!  
  
I throw him off and reach for his collar again, bringing my arm back with the full intention of REALLY sending him flying through the wall this time, when all of a sudden a tiny prick of pain shoots through my leg, and I twist to see the other one silently pulling a syringe out of my calf.  
  
I throw the one in my hands roughly to the ground and fully turn towards the guy tucking the needle back into his pocket. "You have NO idea. . . who. . . you're. . . dealing with. . . "  
  
The room starts swimming around me into this massive gray swirl, and I blink blearily to try and recover, try to refocus, but something's wrong, something's wrong. . .  
  
My entire body is starting to go numb and I shake my head to try and clear it, but it only makes things spin around even worse. . .  
  
"Sleep tight," one of them whispers, and it echoes in my mind, and I black out before my head even hits the floor.  
  
***  
  
My eyes flutter open to the sight of a dusky blue sky speckled lightly with dim stars. The sun is just beginning to lower somewhere off to my left, and I try to crane my head to get a better look at it. . .  
  
. . . but my head doesn't move.  
  
I blink furiously, trying to get something to budge, sending out messages to my arms, my legs, my neck, ANYTHING as long as it'll DO SOMETHING--  
  
"Looks like our guest is coming to."  
  
My eyes flicker to the source of the voice, and by instinct I attempt to jerk my head in that direction as well, but it remains stationary. The face of the taller guy is barely recognizable out of the corner of my eye, carrying my limp body in his arms.  
  
"Rise and shine, sleeping beauty," the face jeers. "We're here."  
  
There's the sound of a car door creaking open somewhere next to me and all of a sudden I'm thrown roughly into the back of a van onto it's reclined plush seat. The tall one hops in after me and pulls the door shut behind him just as the car is started up, presumably by shorty.  
  
My eyes dart to my fellow passenger, anger pulsing through my veins and I want desperately to kick him, thrash him, or at least glare at him to express how deeply I despise his guts right now but I remain perfectly immobile, which only intensifies my fury.  
  
I mean, not even my superpowers are working! My eyebeams, lasers, nothing! I can't even hover! What good is the friggin' Chemical X if it can be rendered helpless by some stupid God damn little--  
  
"The drug won't wear off for six hours or so," he suddenly says, leaning over me and brining his face close to mine. The fact that I can't even do so much as curl a lip in disgust at him INFURIATES me.  
  
"But that's PLENTY of time to have some fun." He smiles darkly at me and licks his lips. "Granted, YOU won't be moving or talking much, but. . . "  
  
He trails off and presses his hand up the side of my body, knuckles rubbing hard circles into my ribs. His hand then lifts and conspicuously reaches for my chest, and my eyes widen and I growl, but it doesn't sound like a growl, more like a weak grunt, and God what's wrong with me I just want to be able to move Butch WHERE ARE YOU--  
  
"What's this?"  
  
Instead of grabbing my chest he pulls at the chain around my collar.  
  
Butch's necklace.  
  
"Is this pretty little thing from your boyfriend?" he sneers, and clamps his hand around it as if to rip it from my neck but suddenly reconsiders and lays it back on my skin. The car makes a sharp turn and I think for a moment 'Has somebody caught us' but no, the car continues rolling and I heave a deep, disappointed breath.  
  
"I'll bet he's a REALLY great guy." The man continues. "I mean, he probably is pretty generous and wouldn't even mind sharing his girl with two other guys. You know what they say, after all--"  
  
And he smiles disgustingly and positions his knee between my legs.  
  
"Spread the joy."  
  
My breathing becomes heavy and ragged with panic he can't do this not to me not to me I don't want it why is he doing this why doesn't he just leave me ALONE--  
  
"Hey man, keep yer pants on till we stop, won'tcha?!" Shorty calls form the driver's seat.  
  
His gaze shifts from my face to the front of the van and he grins. "I'm just having a little fun with the girl." He looks back down at me. "Say, where are you from anyway, doll? You don't see many dark-haired green-eyed chicks 'round here. You some sort of South American? Asian, maybe?"  
  
He leans into my cheek and I inwardly grimace.  
  
"I wonder if you FEEL as exotic as you look," he whispers, then drops his open mouth onto mine and pries open my jaw with his tongue.  
  
'NO!!!' my mind screams, the blood in my head frantically pounding and a hot blush steaming my face as he violently works his lips over mine--  
  
'. . . nononononoNoNoNONO--!!!'  
  
My body suddenly jerks sharply and he grunts in surprise and pulls himself from my mouth, rubbing his lip. He glares at me, eyes wide in disbelief. "I must not have given you enough of that shit," he mutters curiously before a sinister smile appears on his face.  
  
"Maybe that will make things more interesting."  
  
All of a sudden he grabs me by my hair and jerks my head back, exposing my neck, and he swoops down on me hungrily, pressing his mouth to my throat.  
  
And Jesus, all I wanna do is throw up, because it's nerve-wracking and scary as hell to have this complete stranger on top of you pushing his hot slimy tongue onto your skin with his leg between yours and being unable to do anything about it and not knowing where you are or if they'll ever find you is Butch EVER going to find me. . . ?  
  
I squeeze my eyes shut and try to ignore the guy at my throat, numbing my skin with his rough kisses and bites, ignore his dry and callused fingers prying the buttons of my shirt from their holes, ignore the rapidly growing sense of fear and panic racing through my blood as the car comes to a stop-- CHRIST IT'S COMING TO A STOP!!!  
  
Within seconds the van is turned off and his friend appears at his side, eyeing me lustily. I squeeze my eyes shut again and furiously work at trying to jolt my muscles back into existence, but they're dead dead dead I can't move what do I do what do I do BUTCH?!  
  
"Damn, girl." They guy on my neck straightens and wipes at his mouth. "You oughtta be proud of these."  
  
I open my eyes to see his attention focused on my chest. "You don't even need THIS," he remarks, tracing the shoulder strap of my bra, and all of a sudden another spasm briefly jerks my body as his fingers brush my skin. Move, Buttercup! MOVE!  
  
"So," he says, turning to his friend, "let's experiment."  
  
The word sends a shudder down my mental spine. Experiment. . . ?  
  
"How so?"  
  
And evil, disgusting smirk crosses his face.  
  
"I'll take the top half and you take the bottom half."  
  
JESUS CHRIST.  
  
His words send my body into a frantic panic, and I twitch once and no more. How can they talk about me like that, like I'm some worthless meaningless piece of meat to be split like that I'm not I'm not YOU GODDAMN SICKOS--  
  
"Fair enough."  
  
And then it's four hands on me, one tangling itself in my loosening hair, the other on my stomach, the last two stroking my leg and thigh and I think to myself Shit No This isn't happening Why me Why me I'm not pretty like Blossom I'm not happy like Bubbles I never did anything that guys ever liked me for so why this why me WHY ME?!?!  
  
"Now, sweetheart, keep yer eyes open or you'll miss out on all the fun," the taller one growls before pressing his hand to my eyes and opening them for me but Christ I don't wanna look don't wanna see don't don't don't Don't DON'T!!!  
  
His friend starts fingering the hem of my skirt and I start breathing heavily, panicking panicking PANICKING--  
  
"Calm down, beautiful. It won't hurt. . . MUCH."  
  
"Yeah," the one closer to me says, and positions the pendant just so on my neck. "Just pretend that's your boyfriend watching the three of us and you won't feel so lonely." He leans over me and crams his tongue into my mouth again. . .  
  
'Butch. . . ' I think to myself helplessly, 'why aren't you here, why did I tell you to go on ahead why didn't I use my powers when I had the chance why didn't I scream the first time they touched me why why why Why WHY?  
  
'I should've said something, should've told you. . . Told you. . . '  
  
My eyes start to burn.  
  
Just don't think about it, Buttercup,' I tell myself. 'Don't think about it and you'll barely feel it, like it never happened--Maybe it'll be all over soon, done and quick, just--JUST--'  
  
A hand starts crawling up underneath my skirt and another begins to slide the strap of my bra off my shoulder and meanwhile I feel a tongue forcefully pressing against mine and NONONO not done quick not ever NOT EVER leave me alone get off me don't touch me Butch I need you WHERE ARE YOU?!?!  
  
And then what happens next. . .  
  
One moment their hands are inching towards. . . one moment their hands are on me and then there's an explosion of metal and glass and the hands disappear and someone's thrown out of the gaping hole in the side of the car and another someone gets slammed around before he hits the unbroken wall side of the van, Butch's hands around his neck.  
  
The remnants of his familiar bright green streak fade into the air above me..  
  
"You sick son of a bitch," Butch hisses and lifts him from the wall and slams him down beside me, pinning his legs with his knees and his arms with his hands. "Tell me what the HELL you think you're doing," he snarls, a dangerous glint in his eye, and it almost scares me to see it there, that glint, that glint I haven't seen since the first time I met him before we were friends--  
  
"On second thought, I don't wanna hear any of your shit excuses," Butch growls, and he suddenly flicks his wrist up and something shimmers and makes a *shling* sound in his hand.  
  
A knife.  
  
My eyes and those of the guy lying next to me widen in fear. "Don't--" he gasps--  
  
Butch's glare narrows and he swiftly brings his hand down, stopping the tip of the knife just a hair above the guy's neck.  
  
"Another word and I'll cut your goddamn vocal chords out. Don't think I have any qualms about splitting your neck open and leaving you to bleed to death before the police get here; I've been doing it for years now to guys stronger and faster and more dangerous than YOU."  
  
Without taking his eyes off him, Butch jerks his head toward me and snaps, "Now apologize."  
  
My eyes flicker to the man who just a minute ago had been slobbering on top of me.  
  
He looks at me fearfully and whimpers, "I--I'm--"  
  
"SAY IT PROPERLY!" Butch roars, and grabs him by his hair and twists his head toward me, the cold flat of the blade pressed taut against his neck.  
  
"I'M SORRY!" he shouts, and is promptly thrown into the side of the van, the metal grinding as his skull hits the wall.  
  
I lift my eyes to Butch.  
  
He stares a moment at the figure knocked out on the van floor, pure hatred evident in his cold green eyes. Then he turns them on me, and I inhale sharply, partly because I'm scared of how cold he looks, so unlike my best friend, and partly because I'm ashamed that he has to see me like this, vulnerable, half-naked, helpless like a little GIRL--  
  
His face falls as he hastily looks me over once, then returns his eyes to my face, his gaze softening as he meets my own eyes. I blush furiously, feeling horribly guilty that I couldn't defend myself, couldn't do anything. . .  
  
I avert my eyes and refuse to look at him.  
  
He takes a deep, shuddering breath and gently takes my chin in his hand, tilting it so we're looking directly at each other again, and I wanna say something to him, wanna tell him I didn't mean for it to happen, didn't want for it to happen, never once in a million years EVER, but I still can't say a word nor move a muscle.  
  
A pained look crosses his features as he looks at me, something akin to despair in his eyes. He presses his lips tightly together and nervously moistens them, swallowing thickly as he lightly brushes the hair from my face and leans in a bit closer to me.  
  
My blush deepens.  
  
He takes another shuddering breath and, without taking his eyes from mine, reaches a trembling hand for my arm and readjusts the strap, settling it back on my shoulder. Wordlessly he wraps the shirt back over my chest, fastening the buttons back together all the way down to my waist. There his gaze shifts as he tugs the skirt back into place, then he looks at me again and suddenly pulls me toward him, engulfing me completely in his arms.  
  
"Christ, Buttercup," he sobs into my hair, though his eyes are dry, "I'm SORRY."  
  
He holds me tight a few moments more then moves so his forehead presses to mine. "I should've been here, should've been here sooner, I shouldn't have left you alone. . . I SHOULD HAVE BEEN THERE," he hisses, his words tumbling out of his mouth and brushing over my lips. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. . .  
  
He takes a deep breath and scoops me up in his arms, adjusting them so my head drops onto his shoulder, and my fear and doubt instantly dissipates, the events of what happened not five minutes ago quickly fading to what seems like a bad dream now; the dragons were slain, the evil vanquished, and now my knight, my beautiful green-eyed knight in shining armor is whisking me away and while I hate to think of myself as a damsel in distress if it's Butch I'll make this one exception.  
  
He looks down at me with my eyes raised to his face, his insanely beautiful and handsome face, and then he slowly leans in and presses his lips softly to my forehead.  
  
And I don't quite believe I've ever loved him as much as I do at this very moment, this moment that's lasting a lifetime in my mind, this flawless perfect moment with his kiss pressed to my skin and I could tell him now, couldn't I, oh God there's nothing I want more than to throw my arms around him and whisper against his lips "I love you. . . "  
  
But all I can do is close my eyes in silent rapture and sigh as I impress in my memory the exhilarating feeling of this, this simple action that's searing my heart in two because I want so desperately to be able to tell him, to hold him, to kiss him full upon his lips because I love him I love him I LOVE YOU BUTCH. . .  
  
He pulls his lips away from my skin and that moment that lasted a lifetime is gone. Soon I feel the wind rushing past us as he takes flight, and I allow a light sigh to pass between my lips as I gaze upon his face.  
  
***  
  
When we reach his car, still parked in the now empty mall lot, he supports me with one arm around my waist and opens the car door for me and reclines the seat back all the way, gently laying me down on it.  
  
"You'll be moving again in no time, Buttercup," he whispers, smoothing the hair on my face again. "Just give me a moment and. . . um. . . pretend you don't see anything."  
  
He shuts the door and zips over to the driver's side, where he opens his own door and taps something along under the seat, and the whole chair makes a whirring sound and moves back, and instead of watching I simply shut my eyes and listen to the hum of machinery.  
  
"Dammit, Brick & Boomer are so much better at this than I am," I hear him whisper. "This is going to sting a moment, Buttercup," he says apologetically, and I feel the sharp prick of a needle.  
  
Minutes pass, filled with sparse beeping and the occasional sound of turning gears.  
  
Suddenly I feel him part my mouth and drape a cloth over it. "Just breathe normally, Buttercup." I willingly oblige. The fiber smells like campho- phenique.  
  
More whirring. I open my eyes just as Butch kneels on the driver's seat, leaning over me and pulling the cloth from my face. The feeling is already starting to come back to my body--  
  
"Buttercup, please say something," Butch whispers, brushing his hand along my cheek.  
  
I barely tilt my head toward him. 'Say it, Buttercup,' I think to myself.  
  
His breathing becomes erratic. "I'm so sorry I wasn't there, Buttercup, just PLEASE tell me something, tell me you're okay, tell me anything, I should've been there with you in the mall, I shouldn't have left, please SAY SOMETHING--"  
  
'Say it, Buttercup!'  
  
"PLEASE--"  
  
'SAY IT!!!'  
  
"--Buttercup. . . "  
  
I throw my arms around him and he instantly wraps his around me, his frantic breathing cooling my neck. I rest my chin on his shoulder as he whispers, "Say something. . . "  
  
My words, the words I've been waiting years and years to say stick in my throat and all I can do is murmur, "Thank you," and squeeze him tighter.  
  
***  
  
The ride to the restaurant is unnaturally quiet. After insisting I was fine, no, I didn't want to go home, yes, I wanted to still go eat out, yes, I meant it when I said yes I was fine and no and yes, Butch reluctantly put the car into gear and pulled onto the freeway in the direction of the restaurant, opposite the route we'd take home.  
  
No talking.  
  
No music.  
  
No nothing.  
  
Just dead, heavy silence, save for whenever Butch shifted gears. He kept his face dark and pensive and fixed ahead. Sometimes he got an even more intense look of concentration on his face, as if he was thinking hard about something, other times he'd tilt his head and open his mouth as if to say something, but would reconsider at the last moment and instead sigh heavily and redirect his attention to the front.  
  
I can't say I feel at ease right now. Taking into heavy consideration what happened. . . but it wasn't just me being attacked like that, it was also being deeply reminded that my best friend had been just an inch away of. . . of. . .  
  
And despite the fact I hated those two for doing that to me, for touching me. . . to be driven to the point where you would KILL. . . no matter how horrid they were. . . I hadn't been able to consider it when I was five, couldn't even consider it NOW--  
  
"Did he kiss you?" Butch asks suddenly.  
  
I swivel my head to gaze at him, stunned, a blush tinting my cheeks. "Wha-- "  
  
"Did he *kiss* you?" he repeats sternly, and I can't help but notice the way his hands grip the wheel, that glint in his eye that scared me when I saw it--  
  
I turn my head away, lower my eyes, and whisper, "Yeah--"  
  
Suddenly he jerks the wheel to the side and my shoulder hits the door hard as the car spins, tires screeching, and miraculously stops on the shoulder of the freeway, inches from the concrete wall. I grab the dashboard just before my head can bang on it, breathing heavily, my heartbeat gradually slowing down.  
  
"What the HELL do you think you're doing?!" I demand, eyes wide and whipping my head around to look at Butch.  
  
He doesn't seem to hear me, much less be paying any attention to me. He's huddled over the steering wheel, eyes squeezed tightly shut and teeth visibly grit, then all of a sudden he throws his head back and screams, "DAMMIT!!!" He slams his hand against the horn, blaring it for a good ten seconds, then pounds his fist into his leg, shouting, "God DAMMIT! I KNEW IT, I KNEW IT! I should've killed them when I had the chance, I should have FUCKING KILLED THOSE GODDAMN PIECES OF SHIT!!!"  
  
He leans on the steering wheel, resting his head on his arms and growling over and over again, "God damn God damn Goddammit. . . "  
  
"Butch. . . "  
  
"I should never have left you alone," he says suddenly, turning to me. "I should've been with you, I should've been there to stop it, I should've. . . should've. . . "  
  
And his eyes narrow again and he turns away from me, hatred seeping into his expression again. "I shouldn't have let them of so EASY. . . " he whispers darkly.  
  
"Butch, no. . . it's okay--"  
  
"No, it is NOT okay!!" he snaps, turning back towards me. "If I hadn't gotten there right when I did, if I had been ONE second late, they would've. . . you. . . would've. . . "  
  
I turn my head away. "That's not something I really want to think about," I say softly.  
  
His eyes widen and he starts shaking his head. "Christ Buttercup, I'm sorry, I didn't mean. . . I didn't WANT--"  
  
"Look, Butch," I cut him off. "The only thing that matters is I'm okay. You made it, you saved me, you. . . "  
  
I turn my head once again to face him and smile weakly. ". . . you SAVED me," I whisper. "I mean. . . you just. . . you really ARE my. . . my. . . knight in shining armor, and I--I--I can't tell you how much I. . . "  
  
'Say it, Buttercup. . . '  
  
". . . can't tell you how much. . . how much. . . "  
  
'Just say it. . . '  
  
". . . I. . . can't tell you. . . "  
  
'SAY IT!!'  
  
"--h-how grateful I am to you for coming to my rescue," I finish with a sigh. But why couldn't I tell him, why couldn't I have looked into his eyes and said to him those three little words, just those three SIMPLE little words--  
  
Butch signs and looks past me at the window. "You're right," he says softly. "I shouldn't. . . think like that. . . it's just. . . the THOUGHT of that guy. . . of ANY guy. . . kissing you without your consent--"  
  
"You're still my first, Butch," I blurt out without thinking, then slap my hands over my mouth, my face turning bright red.  
  
'Nonono I didn't mean to say that!'  
  
Butch's eyes widen and he stifles what sounds like a surprised gasp in his throat as his eyes flicker to me. He blushes and quickly directs his gaze to the front again. I hastily turn to look out of my window, staring at my reflection and thinking 'Stupid STUPID Buttercup why'd you bring that up?!'  
  
In the reflection of the glass I see Butch stare at the wheel a long, endless moment. Then he clears his throat, turns the ignition on, and shifts gears, pulling back out into the freeway.  
  
***7th Grade***  
  
"I do NOT like her like that you guys!" a black-haired boy shouted in exasperation at his on-and-off friends-slash-enemies, his usually bright green eyes darkly set. "We're just friends!"  
  
"Aw, friends my foot!" Mitch rolled his eyes. "You guys ALWAYS hang out together! I mean, back in elementary school, sure, you could be friends, but in middle school it don't work that way! There's only ONE thing it CAN mean when a guy and a girl are constantly seen together in the seventh grade, and that thing is THEY LIKE EACH OTHER!"  
  
"Of course I like her! She's my best friend!"  
  
Mitch slapped his forehead. "No, Butch, you IDIOT! I meant 'like' as in YOU TWO HAVE THE HOTS FOR EACH OTHER!"  
  
Butch's eyes widened and his face turned red due to his anger, though being the friends-slash-enemy Mitch was, he immediately exclaimed, "SEE? You're blushing! You DO like her!"  
  
Instead of lashing out at Mitch, Butch willed himself to turn to the rest of the group. "YOU don't think I like her like that, do you Harry?"  
  
Harry Pitt sucked air through his teeth and looked aroun.  
  
"Mike?"  
  
Mike Believe bit his lip. "Well. . . "  
  
Butch shook his head and said, in a monotone, "Floyd? Lloyd?"  
  
The twins looked at each other, then back at Butch. "If you don't like her, why do you hang out with her so much?"  
  
"AGH!" Butch dropped to his knees and grabbed his head. "Come on! There are PLENTY of guy/girl friends!"  
  
"Oh really?" Mitch said skeptically. "Name 'em!"  
  
Butch took his hands off his head and thought a long moment. ". . . Um. . . well. . . there's. . . no, they started going out last week. . . um. . . no, they've been steady a month now. . . uh. . . um. . . how about. . . no. . . I know! Boomer and Bubbles!"  
  
All the guys gave Butch a look that clearly said they knew better.  
  
"Um, okay, bad example," Butch admitted.  
  
"Face it, Butch. You CAN'T be a friend with a girl unless you're her 'boyfriend,' with no space in between the 'boy' and the 'friend.'"  
  
"That is such a bunch of crock," Butch said. "Besides, me and Buttercup are NOT going out--"  
  
"Then you're INTERESTED in going out--"  
  
"Fer cryin' out loud! What's it gonna take fer me to FINALLY prove to you guys I do NOT like her, and we're ONLY FRIENDS?!"  
  
The guys exchanged looks, and Mitch crossed his arms. "Well. . . "  
  
***  
  
I kicked a loose pebble off the sidewalk and it rolled and bounced into the grass. "Where is he?"  
  
Blossom sighed. "We were SUPPOSED to leave school fifteen minutes ago--"  
  
"Can it, Blossom," Brick snarled. "I get ENOUGH of your whining in class, do I have to deal with it outta school too?"  
  
"You know what, Brick? Why don't you go jump off a bridge?"  
  
"Oh, THAT'S original--"  
  
"Lemme finish: since you THINK so much like a brick, you must SINK just like a brick, too!"  
  
I rolled my eyes, for once uninterested in watching the two of 'em spat. I looked off towards the empty bus canopy where Bubbles and Boomer were 'playing tag,' though I'd played tag all my life and never seen it played THAT way before. . .  
  
I gagged and looked away before the sweetness sickened me. I didn't get this whole 'boyfriend/girlfriend' thing. Twelve year olds weren't supposed to go out on DATES, they were supposed to be making the most out of the last year of their childhood before entering the dreaded 'teen' years, full of hormones and puberty and growth spurts. Why bother trying to rush the miserable process?  
  
"What's taking so freaking long, Butch?" I muttered. I needed an ally to counter the temper of Brick&Blossom, the sweetness of Boomer&Bubbles. Butch&Buttercup would point and laugh at ALL the inferior ones.  
  
Brick broke off from exchanging verbal slurs with Blossom long enough to say, "Dude, FINALLY! There he is!"  
  
I turned and hollered, "Bubbles! Boomer! Git yer lovey-dovey butts over here!"  
  
"Buttercup!" Blossom snapped. I ignored her and turned to watch Butch exiting the school doors with Mitch, Harry, Mike, and Floyd & Lloyd behind him.  
  
I pursed my lips and squinted an eye. Why the crowd? And Butch looked unusually serious. . .  
  
I shrugged it off and walked towards him, saying with relief, "Man, it took you AGES to get here! It's absolute torture to sit here and listen to Brick and Blossom go on and on about their stupid academic insults, and watch Boomer and Bubbles giggle and prance around like they're practically MARRIED to each other. . . I mean, what took so long anyway?" I crossed my arms and gave him an amused look.  
  
Butch gulped thickly as Mitch said, "Well? You gonna do it or what?"  
  
I threw Mitch a confused glance and looked back at Butch. "Butch, what is Mi--"  
  
Suddenly Butch grabbed me by my shoulders and pulled me towards him, and a number of unidentifiable things ran through my head as I felt his mouth pressing against mine.  
  
My eyes widened and all the air escaped my lungs.  
  
The rest of the crowd had similar such reactions.  
  
Boomer's and Bubbles' pupils practically dilated.  
  
Blossom gasped.  
  
I heard Brick whisper, "Oh. . . my. . . GOD."  
  
Out of the corner of my peripheral vision the group of guys that had accompanied Butch outside had their jaws on the ground.  
  
"Dude. . . " Mitch said quietly. "I didn't think he'd actually DO it. . . "  
  
And through it all Butch only stood there, his hands on my shoulders, his eyes squeezed shut, his mouth awkwardly positioned on mine--  
  
And me, I. . . I. . . I felt my face flushing red, knew the shock evident in my eyes, but there was something else, something different in that spot just above my stomach that pounded against my ribcage, faster and faster and faster, and I didn't know what it was, what it was that made me feel so overwhelmed with this sudden desire for. . . for. . .  
  
'Butch. . . ' I thought to myself, 'what do you think you're doing?'  
  
And to my surprise I found my arm raising and bringing itself back, and without warning I shot it forward and punched Butch in the gut, sending him flying against the brick of the school building, pieces of the wall clattering to the ground. Butch slid on his back to the cement, clearly shaken, but for the most part unhurt. He shook his head, blinked, then his eyes widened and he looked at me, as if I were some sort of ghost or something.  
  
Everybody looked at Butch, then at me, though I don't think I really noticed anyway. I only saw Butch, looking as if he'd taken himself by surprise too, as if he hadn't meant to do that, hadn't meant to. . . to. . .  
  
I brought a hand up to my mouth, eyes wide with shock, almost afraid to touch my lips. And as I stared at Butch, my best friend, my ally, my partner in crime. . . the total realization of what he'd just done hit me.  
  
'Butch. . . Butch KISSED me.'  
  
And it hadn't been a peck on the cheek, hadn't been a brush of the lips on the hand, it had been a REAL, honest to God kiss, the kind the eighth graders who went too far did, the kind high school sweethearts gave each other, the kind they did in sappy Disney movies when the girl loved the guy or vice versa--  
  
A deep blush washed over both our faces.  
  
But we weren't like that, me and him, we were friends, just friends, with none of that stupid 'relationship' crap all these other kids were getting into getting in our way. . .  
  
'Not like that,' I thought to myself, so why was I blushing, why was the blood in my veins pulsing so fast, why the adrenaline rush, whywhywhywhywhy- -  
  
Mitch's voice broke through my thoughts. "Dude, it's Ms. Conrad! Scram!" And the group of guys instantly scattered and disappeared just as the principal, Ms. Conrad, came barging out the glass doors. She strode over to Butch and pulled him roughly up by the arm, snapping his gaze from me.  
  
"Butch!" she exclaimed. "In my office now!"  
  
Butch blinked a few times and glanced at me, prompting me to redden again, when Ms. Conrad took my by the collar and ushered him into the building. "March STRAIGHT to my office, young man!" he hesitated before turning and doing as she said.  
  
Ms. Conrad swiftly turned toward me and knelt so we were eye to eye. "Buttercup," she said, concerned, and I had trouble believing this was the same woman who just last week had given me detention for shoe-polishing her car. "Are you okay?"  
  
I stared at her a moment then nodded slowly. "Uh, y-y-yeah, I'm--" I looked past her to where Butch had disappeared. "I'm fine."  
  
"Ok, sweetheart, come with me, I want to have a talk with you about Butch's behavior." She looked at the rest of the gang. "You kids go on home. I'll make sure Butch and Buttercup get home safely. They only nodded. "Come on, Buttercup." Ms. Conrad stood and took my hand, and I obligingly followed.  
  
***  
  
I watched from the chair through the glass windows where I could see but not hear Ms. Conrad talking to an unusually silent Butch, whose gaze was directed to the floor. All of a sudden his eyes widened and his head snapped up to her face, his expression one of shock and disbelief. My curiosity was KILLING me, so I cheated: I used my superpowers to listen through the glass.  
  
". . . yes, you hear me, Butch. You most certainly did NOT have permission to touch Buttercup like that, and just because you two are friends gives you no right, absolutely NONE, to take advantage of her--"  
  
My brow furrowed. 'Take advantage of me?'  
  
"--I will not, I repeat, NOT tolerate sexual harassment of any--"  
  
I dropped back in my seat, my face growing hot and my eyes widening. "Sexual harassment?" I whispered to myself in a tiny voice. But no, that wasn't Butch, he wasn't dirty or sick (well, not in THAT sense) like those people our health teachers had been warning us about for years now, he was just Butch, my friend, my BEST friend, and he didn't do those sorts of things. . .  
  
Suddenly the door opened and Butch stepped out, looking unnaturally pale. He looked at me and I blushed again; why was I turning so red?  
  
"Buttercup," he whispered, "I didn't--"  
  
Ms. Conrad's face popped in the doorway. "Buttercup, please come in. And YOU--" she pointed at Butch as I got up "--I don't want you moving FROM. THIS. SPOT. PERIOD. Come in, Buttercup."  
  
I paused in front of Butch, trying to bring myself to meet his eyes, but I only blushed even deeper and followed Ms. Conrad into her office.  
  
"Now Buttercup," she immediately started once the door was closed, "you need to tell me EXACTLY what happened this afternoon so I can--"  
  
"Ms. Conrad?" I interrupted, clearing my throat uneasily. "You're. . . you're not accusing Butch of. . . um, of--" It was hard for me to say it; I was only twelve! ". . . um. . . "  
  
"Sexual harassment?" she offered, and I blushed.  
  
"Y-you're not going to--"  
  
"Buttercup, just tell me what happened," she sighed, annoyed.  
  
I paused. "Well, we--my sisters and me and Brick and Boomer--were waiting for Butch to come so we could all go home, and he did, and he. . . kissed me." I felt myself turn redder as I said those last two words.  
  
"Did you know ahead of time he was going to do that?"  
  
What kind of question was that? "Of course not."  
  
"Are you two dating?"  
  
"WHAT?!"  
  
"Are you going out with him?" Ms. Conrad rephrased.  
  
"I KNOW what it means, it's just. . . why does everybody think that? First my friends, now the principal--"  
  
She raised an eyebrow. "I'm going to take that as a no."  
  
I sighed. "Yes--I mean, yes, that's a no."  
  
"Then it was unwanted physical contact," she stated matter-of-factly.  
  
"No, it--I mean. . . I dunno. . . "  
  
"Buttercup, are you saying you don't want to press charges?"  
  
"Of course not! I mean. . . I don't want to press charges because. . . because. . . "  
  
"Because he's your friend." Ms. Conrad sighed. "Buttercup, friends aren't always who you think they are--"  
  
"But Butch isn't LIKE that! I know him! It. . . it must've been a mistake or something. . . "  
  
She raised another eyebrow. "A mistake. Right."  
  
"I'm SERIOUS," I pleaded. Why was I so desperate? "We've been best friends for years, and I'll just talk with him and clear everything up, I promise, Principal Conrad, I promise--"  
  
"I don't know, Buttercup. . . "  
  
"If he tries anything again I swear I'll let you know, even though I know he won't, or, well. . . just. . . I think he got the warning good enough, Principal Conrad, just please, PLEASE don't--"  
  
"All right, Buttercup! I get it."  
  
We both sighed, one out of relief and one out of frustration. "But I'll be watching the both of you to make sure he doesn't do this sort of thing again. Got it?"  
  
I was elated!  
  
"Have I made myself clear, Miss Utonium?"  
  
"Crystal," I sighed again, smiling and bobbing my head up and down.  
  
Ms. Conrad looked at me and laughed. "You almost look like Bubbles when you're doing that, Buttercup."  
  
I immediately stopped nodding and frowned. "What?!"  
  
She was already ushering me out the door. As I stepped outside the air suddenly seemed to get thicker, and I felt like I had to fight just to breathe as I saw Butch sitting desolately in the chair next to the office door, elbows on his knees and head in his hands. When the door creaked open he immediately stood up, and our eyes met once before we blushed and dropped our gaze to each other's shoes.  
  
"Miss Utonium has graciously decided she's not going to press charges, Butch," Ms. Conrad said firmly, and I barely made out his head lifting up to hers in surprise. "BUT if you ever, EVER, I repeat, do something like that again, I'm going to go with my better judgement instead of hers," she warned, voice darkening. "I won't tolerate it. Do you understand?"  
  
"Yes ma'am," Butch affirmed, and I bit my lip to keep from laughing. He'd NEVER treated the principal THIS respectfully before.  
  
"All right then. I'll let you two kids go home." She headed back into her office. "Chances are I'll probably see one of you or the other in my office in a week anyway," she muttered under her breath before the door clicked into place.  
  
I lifted my head to meet Butch's eyes, and we both blushed in the awkward silence that followed.  
  
***  
  
The flight back home was a quiet one. We flew side by side, occasionally stealing glances at each other, and hurriedly looking away when we caught each other's gaze.  
  
I still didn't get it.  
  
Didn't get why there was this rapid, frenetic pounding in my chest, this heat that kept on my skin despite the breeze, this horrifying feeling that I would catch his eye every time I looked at him and yet the disappointment I felt when he didn't. . .  
  
'What's WRONG with me?' I thought to myself, half-hoping I could answer. But I had no answer, only more questions. . .  
  
. . . and all they were doing was confusing me more.  
  
I was so wrapped up in my thoughts that I didn't even notice at first when Butch halted beside me and left me flying a few hundred feet before I realized he was behind me. I paused and turned around, the cool breeze riffling around me, bringing with it his scent. . .  
  
. . . but since when had I known what he smelled like?  
  
He stared at the city below us, and I floated up to him, filled with this terrifying sense of being so close, but why did that bother me. . .  
  
I tried to ask if he was okay but the words fell to my stomach and refused to come to my throat. So instead I gazed at the top of his head, and for the first time in our friendship I admired the way the sun highlighted the crown of his head, how smooth and soft each individual strand looked, and then here I was, this twelve year old girl on the verge of losing her childhood in less than a year to come, filled with an overwhelming surge of desire to run my hands through my best friend's hair and relish the way it would skim the surface of my skin, strand by strand by perfect strand. . .  
  
And I don't know what came over me, but my eyelids grew heavy and I reached out a hand, giving in, no questions asked nor answered--  
  
"Why don't you say something?"  
  
My eyes snapped wide open and I drew my hand to my chest, pressing it against the pounding inside me.  
  
His voice was dark, heavy. He took a deep breath and sighed, exhaling as he lifted his head and his eyes met mine, and I felt a lump form in the back of my throat.  
  
I had never noticed how bright his eyes were when they were looking straight at you. They were so. . .  
  
. . . pretty.  
  
"Why don't you say something?" he repeated, shaking his head slowly, eyes still on mine.  
  
I blinked in surprise, but still couldn't force the words past that lump in my throat.  
  
"Aren't you mad?" he whispered, clearly upset. "Why aren't you yelling at me, why aren't you angry?" His voice started growing louder. "You should be. . . INFURIATED! You should be screaming your head off at me! But-- eyargh!"  
  
He furiously ran his hands through his hair and pressed them to the sides of his head. I only hovered in front of him, still.  
  
"I mean--I would THINK you'd wanna KILL me, but--you're so quiet--acting so WEIRD--you're NEVER this quiet, you know?! At least. . . HIT me again or something, Butterucp! Don't you wanna hit me? Why aren't--why DON'T you want to fight me?! I mean, no offense, but. . what's WRONG with you?!"  
  
"Why did you do it?" I finally croaked, my voice cracking pathetically.  
  
The question caught Butch off guard, and he dropped his hands to his sides and turned red. "Um. . . what?"  
  
"Why did you do it?" I repeated, and it almost sounded like I was begging.  
  
His eye darted around and he swallowed thickly. "Well. . . I was. . . mad."  
  
Despair suddenly wormed its way into my chest, though for reasons I couldn't explain. "At me?"  
  
"No!" he frantically amended, shaking his head vigorously. "It was. . . the guys. You know. . . bugging me about you being my best friend." He looked down, guilty. "I. . . just got sick of it. I mean. . . you know what I mean. Don't you get sick of it too?"  
  
I only nodded, though in any other case I would've rolled my eyes and groaned, "YES."  
  
Of course I was sick of it. Nobody cared to give it a rest. Always whispering amongst themselves when the two of us waved at each other in the hall, snickering behind our backs when we sat together at lunch, giving us smug little looks whenever we wrestled in the courtyard after school let out--  
  
"But. . . that doesn't explain why you did. . . THAT," I said quietly.  
  
His eyes darted around, avoiding me. "Well. . . like I said. . . I got. . . sick of it. And. . . I asked them. . . asked them what it would take for me to shut them up about it once and for all. . . and they said. . . they said. . . " He swallowed thickly and blushed.  
  
"If I kissed you they'd never bother us about it ever again."  
  
I blinked a few times before finally saying softly, "Oh."  
  
And then silence. Nothing but the wind rustling through our hair and clothes.  
  
"I'm sorry, Buttercup."  
  
I had never seen such a beautifully apologetic look on his face before, and I could literally feel my lungs swelling as I looked at him.  
  
"It's. . . okay. I mean. . . I guess. . . I'd rather you were my first kiss than anyone else, probably. . . " I could feel myself reddening as those words fell from my lips.  
  
He forced a laugh and looked away. "Yeah. . . it's just. . . you're acting so different right now--"  
  
"I'm kinda still reeling from the shock, yeah--"  
  
"--the thing is, things shouldn't be different." He gave me a pointed look. "This. . . shouldn't be something that changes everything, you know? It's just like a trial, sort of. . . like we're being tested. It's. . . I dunno-- " He shrugged, a bit exasperated. "I just don't want this kind of thing to change our friendship."  
  
I nodded, relieved. "You're right. Absolutely right. It doesn't change anything."  
  
I wasn't lying. It. . . hadn't changed anything between us.  
  
Really. I. . . meant it. I wasn't lying.  
  
Butch exhaled and smiled at me, and I clenched my teeth.  
  
His smile looked so. . . genuine.  
  
"That's good. I don't want anything to change. . . best friends and all that crap, huh?" he said, laughing a bit.  
  
I only managed a weak smile and nodded. "I guess. . . we should both be going home now." We would both be going in separate directions from here.  
  
"Wait, Buttercup," he said quickly, and. . . was it hope? Coursing through my blood. . . no. Couldn't be.  
  
"Um. . . yeah?"  
  
He shoved his hands in his pockets, kind of hunched his shoulders and looked nervously off to the side. "Could. . . well, this'll sound weird, but. . . I'm just so relieved everything was cleared up and all. . . I was wondering. . . if you'd let me give you a hug."  
  
Talk about your strange requests. But even so I had to restrain myself from jumping at his offer. "Y-yeah. Sure. No problem."  
  
He smiled cleared his throat, and floated a bit closer to me. And as I felt his arms slide around me every muscle in my body tensed, shivers rippling my nerves, his very touch jarring every fiber of my being, and I tried to send the message to my arms to hold him and hug him back, but I was afraid I would start shaking if I tried to move and wouldn't be able to stop, so I stood still, closing my eyes as his hair physically shimmered against my eyelids, and thought to myself 'It changes nothing changes nothing nothing has changed. . . "  
  
A moment later he released me form his warm embrace, and as he smiled, said his final goodbye, and took off, I watched his slender form retreat and whispered to myself, "It doesn't change anything, Buttercup.  
  
It doesn't change anything."  
  
***  
  
It wasn't till I reached the front door that I realized the severe questioning I would be subjected to once I set foot inside.  
  
I paused, my hand on the doorknob, a nervous sense of dread I felt on my back, then shook my head. "Don't be stupid, Buttercup," I snorted. "Just tell 'em what happened. That. . . that simple."  
  
Simple. Right.  
  
I started to turn the knob when all of a sudden the door opened for me, and I stood face to face with Blossom.  
  
A rare moment of silence passed between us.  
  
Just as her mouth opened to speak I interjected. "It was a dare," I said hurriedly, and zipped past her and up to our room in a blinding streak of green.  
  
"Buttercup! Wait!"  
  
I slammed the door and refused to come down until dinner.  
  
***  
  
All three of them were quietly sitting at the table when I went down there. Blossom, Bubbles. . .  
  
. . . and the Professor.  
  
I gulped, then took my designated seat, the chair scratching noisily against the linoleum floor.  
  
For a long while no one said or did a thing.  
  
Finally the Professor lifted his fork, and the rest of us followed suit: Bubbles, Blossom, and finally me, in that order.  
  
Nobody said a word throughout the entire meal. I don't even remember what I ate that night, no less how it tasted. I just lifted the fork to my mouth, over and over again, till my plate was cleared and I pushed it away from me a bit.  
  
Everyone else was still eating, and I considered leaving the table, but decided not to risk it. So instead I sat, quiet, which wasn't good because it made me think of. . .well. . .  
  
The Professor was the last to finish his plate. He cleared his throat , folded his arms, and leaned against the table. "Have you girls finished your homework?"  
  
"Today's or tomorrow's?" Blossom asked. "Either way the answer's yes."  
  
"Bubbles?"  
  
"Not yet."  
  
The table was suddenly silent. It was a long moment before the Professor turned to me and inquired, "Buttercup?"  
  
I didn't choose to answer verbally. I only nodded. Once.  
  
The Professor blinked a few times. My sisters looked skeptical. "All of it?" Blossom asked incredulously.  
  
I nodded again. "I had a lab report in Science, a reading for English, and a worksheet in Math. I did it all."  
  
I had to. There was no other way I could keep myself from thinking about Butch.  
  
". . . Well then," the Professor started. "Blossom, why don't you go. . . proof Buttercup's homework. Bubbles, go ahead and finish yours. . . and Buttercup, you can stay here and help me do the dishes."  
  
***  
  
"So. . . it was a dare." The Professor rolled up his sleeves and plunged his hands into the soapy water.  
  
I bit my lip. "Mm-hmm."  
  
"Who dared him to do it?"  
  
"Some guys at school."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because they thought we were going out, and Butch was trying to prove to them we weren't." I let the hot water pool in my mitts before pouring it onto my stack of dishes to rinse.  
  
"Did he apologize?"  
  
"He did."  
  
The stack of clean dishes beside me grew higher until there were no dirty plates left. The Professor turned to me and, after drying his hands on a towel, lightly stroked my hair.  
  
I usually pulled away when he tried to do that, but this time I stood still, and he smoothed out the tangles and said, "I think it's fair to say that you'll be grounded for two weeks. Not because you did anything wrong, Buttercup, but. . . can you blame me for being a bit concerned?"  
  
I bit my lip and shook my head. "No."  
  
He rested his hand on my back and knelt a bit to kiss me on the cheek. "Good girl," he whispered. "You handled it very well today." He stood up and winked. "No bloodshed or leveled buildings. I'm proud."  
  
I forced a silly grin on my face to appease him. I fount it faltering, though, and turned to go back upstairs.  
  
"Buttercup?"  
  
I paused.  
  
"Is everything okay?"  
  
I looked back at the Professor and smiled. "Everything's fine," I said quietly. I stood still for a minute. And then the next I fell into the Professor's arms, listening to his heartbeat with my hair getting in my eyes as I pressed my temple to his chest.  
  
He seemed genuinely surprised at first, but quickly recovered and gave me a gentle squeeze. "Are you sure you're okay?"  
  
My words were muffled against his chest, so I nodded instead.  
  
But no, I wasn't okay. I felt so mixed-up, so confused. 'It doesn't change anything,' I had said, first to Butch, and then to myself. But why did it feel like just the opposite?  
  
Still I nodded again and whispered to the Professor that I was fine.  
  
He wasn't convinced. Smart man. "You know if there's ever something we need to talk about-"  
  
"I know," I cut him off. I pried myself from his grasp and floated to the room.  
  
Halfway up the stairs I stopped and backtracked to the kitchen I hovered up so were face to face and kissed him lightly on the cheek.  
  
"Thanks, Professor."  
  
That said, I retreated.  
  
***  
  
I could tell they'd been listening to the conversation when I went into the room. Not that I cared, really. It was just that now, more than anything, I needed some sort of distraction; something to keep my mind off of. . . off. . .  
  
"I'm going to sleep," I announced as I walked in.  
  
For the umpteenth time that day my sisters were visibly shocked.  
  
"But. . . it's not even 9 yet," Bubbles squeaked. "We usually have to drag you kicking and screaming into bed at 12!"  
  
I shrugged. "I'm tired."  
  
I was in and out of the bathroom in five minutes, and as I walked into the room a second time Blossom cleared her throat and said, "You did good on the homework, Buttercup. I put it in the black folder in your backpack." She seemed like she had more to say but remained quiet.  
  
"Thanks," I said before rolling into my bed and wrapping myself in the sheets.  
  
***  
  
Sleep. . . did not come easily. The quiet just opened the door of opportunity for reflective thinking. I reflected on the evens of the afternoon. I thought about Butch. I thought about me. And then. . . I did a bad thing.  
  
I started thinking about us.  
  
My stomach clenched itself whenever I saw him after that. We still greeted each other the same old way, and I learned quickly how to suppress the red telltale warmth that threatened to spread upon my face upon hearing his voice. Word about that infamous afternoon got around fast, but the way we acted around each other, you never would've thought anything had changed. . .  
  
. . . it was almost as if the events of that day had never transpired.  
  
And the funny thing was nobody ever brought up anything ever again.  
  
They stopped whispering, stopped pointing, stopped gossiping. All throughout the rest of middle school and throughout high school.  
  
And for all those years. . . I. . . I. . .  
  
***  
  
The second day I finished my homework early again and sat around for awhile. Ended up thinking some more. Mainly asking questions, really.  
  
Like how come the hammering in my chest quickened its pace when I thought of him. How come my mouth felt so dry when I heard his voice. How come I was starting to long for just one, one single accidental brush of his hand against mine when we walked side by side in the halls from class to class. . .  
  
Why was I lingering near him till the split second before the bell rang? Why was I thinking to myself whenever he was talking to me about his soft hair, his bright eyes, the shapes his mouth made as he spoke to me? Why was I so incredibly aware of his scent as it faded on my clothes, my books, my skin. . .  
  
I had gripped the carpet tightly that second afternoon. Slipped my hands around my sides and just underneath the hem of my shirt to clench my bare stomach, hunching over and squeezing my eyes shut, anything, ANYTHING that could take my mind off him, distract my mind from him, keep my mind off him. . .  
  
Frustrated, I flew out of our room and downstairs. Bubbles was working on an art project in the living room and Blossom was practicing in the Danger Grid.  
  
I found myself in the kitchen, where the Professor was preparing dinner. That afternoon and the rest of them after that for a week was spent watching him. Then I started helping. And then it was only me in the kitchen while he got a chance to relax with the paper at the dinner table or work in his lab.  
  
I didn't mind. Learning to cook and cooking itself kept my mind focused, off things that I certainly tried not to think about.  
  
Butch was as careless, as worry-free as ever. After the two weeks was up we still spent weekends and some afternoons together, wrestling and racing and generally beating the crap out of each other when we weren't saving the city.  
  
We never talked about that day again.  
  
And I kept it a good secret for a long time.  
  
From myself.  
  
***2 years later, High School Freshman year***  
  
"Has anybody asked you to Homecoming yet?"  
  
I snorted. "I'm not going."  
  
"That doesn't answer the question, smart ass. I asked if somebody asked you."  
  
"Does it make a difference? I'm not going." I hopped on the stair railing and teetered, waving my arms around to balance myself. 'Damn chest,' I thought silently to myself. 'Screwing up my center of gravity.' "I don't see why it's such a big deal. Just another stupid dance."  
  
"But it's the first dance we get the chance to experience as HIGH SCHOOLERS. . . " Butch drawled out, hissing the 's' in my face.  
  
"A dance is a dance," I muttered, and jumped down next to him. We headed for the exits, bags slung over our shoulders. "Why did you wanna know, anyway?"  
  
He shrugged. "Just curious."  
  
Once outside we took off and flew in silence for a few minutes. "No," I finally said.  
  
Butch looked at me. "No?"  
  
"No." I shot a sideways glance at him. "What about you?"  
  
It was a stupid question. I had no doubt in my mind what the answer was already.  
  
"A few girls have asked me, yeah," he admitted softly. "Can't say it does much for my male egotism to be asked by a girl, but. . . I guess I'll blame it on their hormones. Maybe they were PMS'ing."  
  
"What did you say to them?" I asked colorlessly.  
  
"I told them I'd think about it. But. . . I wanted to make sure you were going." He kept his eyes pointed straight ahead. "You know it wouldn't be any fun without you. For me. Misbehaving is so much more enjoyable when you're with a good pal."  
  
I smirked. "Flattery will get you nowhere."  
  
Silence again. We were almost home.  
  
"So nobody's asked you?"  
  
I frowned. "You asked me that already. No."  
  
The wind whistled past us.  
  
"Does that mean I'll have the honor of being the first?"  
  
***  
  
It was on Homecoming night of my Freshman year.  
  
We showed up in t-shirts and shorts, and when the administrators wouldn't let us in to the hotel hosting it because of "inappropriate attire," we broke in through a suite window. We rearranged the food at the snack table into rude and obscene sculptures. We poured water from the pool into the punch and made it a night to remember. Before security could get a hold of us we fled to the roof of the building outside and leaned against each others' backs, feeding each other the worst and dirtiest pickup lines we could come up with. And then I laid down on my back and he rested his head on my stomach and fell asleep.  
  
And as I let my hand trace his hairline and the fine stripe between his lips I finally gave in.  
  
I finally admitted it to myself after two long sleepless years.  
  
I was in love with my best friend.  
  
I was in love with Butch.  
  
***  
  
Love--in this form, at least--seemed IMPOSSIBLE for my character.  
  
I mean, I knew I wasn't incapable of it, but. . . to this degree. . .  
  
The thing was, with some crushes, or other crushes in general, was eventually you gave up. Or lost interest, or found someone new.  
  
But. . . that didn't happen.  
  
I watched him in middle school. I watched him in high school. I watch him in college now.  
  
I could tell you everything about him. I could tell you what shampoo he uses, what toothpaste, his favorite clothing brand, favorite movie, favorite song, favorite book.  
  
I could tell you the names of all the girlfriends he'd ever had, though anything more than a name and I was stumped. They all eventually mass- molded into a single character I had always known only as "The Other Girl." Even the nice girls like Kendall.  
  
There were times when I would've given every living breathing fiber of my entire being just to be "The Other Girl," just for five seconds, the girl he held in his arms, the girl he kissed hello, the girl he whispered to as he passed her in the halls. . .  
  
At the same time I had what they couldn't though. . . I read him better than anyone else. I knew just what to say to him at just the right time. And I had his smile. His genuine smile.  
  
"You're always first on my list, Buttercup," he admitted every now and then, with a truly serious expression on his face. I didn't doubt him for a second. And I knew the other girls were jealous of that, of me coming first in his life. But still. . . God, what I wouldn't have given for those few brief moments of being "The Other Girl. . . "  
  
I always wanted more.  
  
I always wanted him.  
  
'But you've always had him,' I would think to myself afterwards.  
  
But not like that. I wanted his laugh on my cheeks, his hands in my hair, his kiss on my lips. . .  
  
He's probably broken a lot of girls' hearts. There's only one I know of for sure, though, and that's mine, which he's broken more than once.  
  
But every time I forgive him. Because. . . well. . .  
  
. . . you can't help but forgive when you're in love.  
  
***  
  
The sun is starting to inch its way down. I decide to time it just for kicks.  
  
One one million. . . Two one million. . . Three one million. . .  
  
Suddenly his hand alights atop mine as it rest on the seat of the car, and my attention snaps to him as he slides his left hand against the steering wheel. He keeps his eyes face forward and doesn't say a word, but as my gaze shifts outside to the window again his right hand gently squeezes mine and holds it and doesn't let go.  
  
And as I watch his reflection silhouetted against the gradually lowering sun, I already know I'll forgive him for this heartbreak, too.  
  
***  
  
"We're here," Butch finally says softly, and his hand leaves mine to park the car and turn it off. I numbly stare at the dashboard, slowly rubbing the back of my left hand against the fabric of my skirt.  
  
"Are you sure you don't wanna go home, Buttercup?" He gently asks, placing a hand on my shoulder and looking genuinely concerned.  
  
I blink furiously and shake my head. "I'm fine. Let's go."  
  
I immediately hop out of the car and slam the door shut as Butch slips out his own side, considerably slower than me. I start taking quick steps toward the restaurant, listening to Butch shuffling behind me. Gradually I slow down until he appears at my side, hands stuffed in his pockets and eyes concentrated on something far off in the distance ahead of us.  
  
A group of young guys passes by us, talking and laughing loudly, and as one of their stragglers approaches me he flashes me a friendly smile.  
  
A few steps more and Butch suddenly reaches out his right arm and wraps it around my waist, pulling me closer to him as he watches the group out of the corner of his eye.  
  
I blink and blush in surprise. "Butch?"  
  
"You can't blame me for being worried, can you?" he whispers quietly without looking at me.  
  
I don't answer. I'm too busy trying not to focus on the bone of my hip where his hand rests.  
  
***  
  
"I feel a tad overdressed for this place, Butch," I remark, taking note that practically every customer is in jeans and a t-shirt.  
  
"Aw, don't sweat it none. Kendall made us a reservation on our very own little private spot on the deck away from prying eyes." His arm leaves my waist and he clutches my hand instead. A turn here, a turn there, then it's through a door and up an outdoor flight of creaky wooden stairs past equally creaky wooden balconies--  
  
"And here you are," the blue jean clad hostess perks cheerily.  
  
Butch purses his lips and nods. "Wow. Not bad."  
  
I look around. Not bad indeed. One lone table sits in the middle of the wooden landing, illuminated by electric lanterns hanging from poles along the deck railing. The trees form a leafy roof overhead, only allowing for a few pockets of sky to shimmer through.  
  
"It's. . . different," I say, awestruck.  
  
"That's one way to put it," Butch responds, and we take our seats.  
  
"My name is Lily and I'll be your hostess this evening. What drinks would you like to start off with?"  
  
Butch glances at the drink list on the table and points at an orange one, pictured. "Go ahead and give me one of those, Lily. Does it have alcohol in it?"  
  
"Yes, it does," Lily replies, scribbling away.  
  
"Can you make it a virgin?"  
  
"Not unless I baptize it."  
  
We all blink a moment and then break into grins and laughter.  
  
Funny. Mine feels so forced.  
  
"No problem. And you, miss?"  
  
"Ah. . . " I sigh. "Just give me a strawberry daiquiri. No alcohol tonight."  
  
"Oookee." Lily flips her pen back behind her ear. "I'll be right back with those drinks."  
  
"Can we have two waters to go with that?" Butch calls after her. She turns and gives us a thumbs up before she starts back down the stairs.  
  
We sit at the table in silence.  
  
"Um. . . I think I'm gonna go to the restroom to freshen up a bit." I push my chair back and stand.  
  
Butch stands just as I do. "I'll go with you."  
  
***  
  
He waits outside the door while I run some cold water over my face and neck. When I rub my shoulders I look at myself in the mirror for a short period of time. Then I exhale and leave.  
  
"See? No harm done," I say with a smile as we start up the stairs back to our table.  
  
No response.  
  
Our drinks are already there waiting for us, and in another five minutes we order, and then silence again.  
  
I tip my head back and study the overhanging leaves and branches. "I hope there aren't any birds up there."  
  
Butch stifles a snort, then quickly recomposes himself. But only for a moment.  
  
In a second we both start cracking up, laughing till our sides are splitting and tears come to our eyes.  
  
"Ah," Butch sighs, smiling as he rubs at his eyelid. "That's just too great. So. . . whaddaya think of the place?"  
  
"It seems like the type of place Kendall would like." A little needle of pain stabs my heart. "Do you. . . do you and Kendall come here often?"  
  
To my surprise he shakes his head. "I've never been here before. Kendall comes here a lot, though. She likes the music. And she says she likes to watch the sunset."  
  
I look around us. Surrounded by trees.  
  
"Oh yeah," I say sarcastically, rolling my eyes. "Never seen anything like it."  
  
"I'll bet it looks really nice on the lower decks," Butch murmurs, looking up. Without warning he suddenly zips over, grabs me by the waist, and zooms up through the branches before I can say "What the HELL are you doing--"  
  
My breath catches in my throat. He pauses just so the tops of our bodies peek past the canopy, turning westward to watch the sun set a brilliant orange hue doubly reflected and shimmering in the lake.  
  
"If that isn't one of the damned prettiest things I've ever seen," Butch whispers, holding me a bit tighter.  
  
I run my tongue quickly over my lips and nod, the back of my head bumping his chin. "It's. . . pretty spectacular."  
  
"Mmm." He lowers us past the branches and back to the deck again, brushing the leaves from my hair with his free hand. Just as we land on the deck again Lily comes up with our food, eyebrows lifting a bit in surprise as she catches Butch with his arms around me.  
  
I immediately shove him away and hastily sit down, blushing like crazy.  
  
The simpleton he is, Butch only dusts his hands off and takes his seat again, coolly sipping his drink.  
  
After setting down our food Lily places a desk bell on our table. "In case you guys need anything else, just give me a ring," Lily explains, tapping the bell. "Other than that, I'll leave you two lovebirds alone for now." She winks and bounds back down the stairs.  
  
"Waitaminute, you've got it all wrong--" I blush again and slump back in my chair. She obviously didn't hear me.  
  
"Twenty-two years old and it still bothers you, eh Buttercup?"  
  
My eyes lift to find his expression an amused smirk as he gazes on me.  
  
"Well, in any case," Butch says, raising his fork, "bon appetit."  
  
***  
  
I look up after finishing my plate to find (to my imminent surprise) Butch is still picking at his food.  
  
"Dude, are you okay? You've usually inhaled the whole thing before I can even take a bite."  
  
"Meh." He shrugs and pokes at his pasta. "I'm just. . . not very hungry." He blinks and then smirks again. "You make better chicken alfredo."  
  
"If you say so." I ding the bell and after a minute Lily comes up and clears off my side of the table. After she disappears Butch takes a bit off his fork and chews slowly, nodding.  
  
"Yep. You definitely make a better chicken alfredo. Could kick this one's ass any day of the week."  
  
"It can't be THAT bad."  
  
"No, it's not that it's bad, it's just not as good as yours. Really."  
  
He pulls the fork from his mouth and twirls it on his plate.  
  
"Wanna try some?"  
  
And without giving me a chance to respond he holds his fork to my mouth, waving it expectantly.  
  
I blink in surprise and hesitate. All my silverware was just cleared off the table.  
  
"Open the tunnel, here comes the train," Butch babies with a smile and nudges my lip with the fork.  
  
Before I can have a second thought about it I open my mouth and clamp my lips around the fork's head, trying not to pay attention to the way the metal tines slide against my tongue, my teeth, my lips as Butch slides it from my mouth.  
  
I force myself to chew and swallow. "It. . . "  
  
I pause as I watch Butch take another bite of chicken with that same fork and feel the heat rise to my face. ". . . it's good."  
  
"Yeah, well, like I said," Butch says, setting down his silverware and pushing away his plate, "yours is still a hell of a lot better."  
  
I moisten my lips and scrape them against the flat of my teeth while Butch dings the bell.  
  
"You guys want me to bring you the bill?" Lily asks as she appears at our table once again. "Or would you like some dessert?"  
  
Butch looks at me questioningly, and I shake my head. "We'll pass on dessert, Lily, but tell you what--hold onto the bill for right now, and could you refill these for us?" He indicates our empty glasses.  
  
"No problemo." With the cups in one hand and a plate in the other she runs off to fulfill his request.  
  
"I hope you're leaving her a big tip," I comment.  
  
"She'll deserve it," Butch nods, resting his chin in his hands. He blinks and turns a bit. "Hear that?"  
  
Without waiting for an answer he gets up and walks to the railing, leaning over it. "There's a band down there."  
  
"Zat so?" I stroll to his side, trying to peer past the branches. The music's louder now; I can hear it clearer. "Sounds like a jazz group."  
  
"Hah! Kendall's favorite." Butch smiles and nods. "How fitting."  
  
"Here are those drinks, guys," Lily calls from behind us, and we turn and thank her. I start back for the table, but Butch suddenly takes my wrist and twirls me into his arms. Lacking inner grace and adequate maneuverability skills, I clumsily stumble into him, bumping his chest with my face.  
  
"Introducing Buttercup Utonium. Middle name: Grace," Butch teases and laughs.  
  
I grumble and try to pull away but his arms hold me tight and close. He bends his neck to whisper into my hair, "Dance with me," and pulls out his arm, twirling me again, and I falter again and almost trip over my own feet.  
  
"Cut that out," I snap, snatching my hand away.  
  
Butch only looks at me, amused, then puts on his confused face. My expression melts.  
  
"But I thought you LIKED spending time with me."  
  
"Dancing is a different story," I counter, crossing my arms and giving a little huff, my heart pounding something dreadful in my head.  
  
"That's because you always try to lead," Butch explains, and reaches for my arm. I let him take it without putting up much of a fight. "Don't be so stubborn."  
  
"I am NOT stubborn," I pout.  
  
He rolls his eyes. "Right." All of a sudden he cocks his head. "Hey, I've heard this song before!"  
  
He tugs me abruptly into his arms again and I end up leaning at an angle resting in his arms with my face tilting up to his. He swoops down and sweeps his lips against my cheek. "Kiss me! Kiss me!" he croons, and snaps me back upright again, twirling me so I fall against his chest like a rag doll.  
  
"When you do I know that you will miss me, miss me. . . "  
  
We sway a bit together and then he spins around me. "Yada-yada-I-don't-know- this-part so kiss me," and he pulls me by my arms to him yet again and presses his forehead to mine. "Kiss me," he sings along with the music, a smile on his lips and a whisper in his voice. "Make me tell you I'm in love with you. . . "  
  
And I blush furiously and tilt my chin to my chest, backing away, when I stumble into my chair and fall over, taking the chair down with me.  
  
Being the undying emblem of compassion he is, Butch starts laughing.  
  
"You asshole," I growl, and crumple up my napkin and toss it at him, grabbing my skirt so he doesn't get a peek of something I don't particularly want him to see.  
  
The napkin bounces off his chest harmlessly. "Ah. . . " he sighs, chuckling a little. "One minute we're dancing, next thing you know, you're down on your back," he says with a smile as he pulls me up.  
  
I scowl. "Screw you."  
  
"Oh, hey, come on, it's a slow song now," Butch protests, indicating the change in music. "You still owe me a dance."  
  
"Since when?"  
  
"Senior prom, dork. Remember? We never got around to it since that son of a bitch Mitch spiked the punch and got us all stoned. I've had to wait till now--"  
  
"Well, you can keep on waiting for all I careUMPH!"  
  
He sweeps me around in his arms and sets me on the railing so I'm looking down on him as he smiles up at me.  
  
"One dance, Buttercup. One dance before I leave."  
  
I pull back a bit as he leans closer, his arms on my hips holding me steady. "When you do I know that you will miss me. . . " he sings softly, smiling, and I swallow and run my tongue nervously over my lips. I allow him to ease me off the railing and into his arms, one wrapped around my waist, the other pulling both of my hands to his chest.  
  
"First I gotta teach you how to slow dance, though," he says quietly, rubbing my wrists, and every muscle in my body tenses.  
  
"Relax," he soothes, massaging my skin, and I try willingly to comply.  
  
"And you have to get closer to me. Don't be afraid, I'm not gonna bite," he whispers with a smile as his grip tightens a bit. "And don't try to lead," he warns, starting to sway back and forth a bit. "Just follow me."  
  
'I've been doing THAT for ten years now,' I consider saying, but keep it to myself.  
  
***  
  
For all I can tell this isn't really dancing. More like standing and swinging back and forth. . . kind of.  
  
But. . . I'm in no position to complain.  
  
This is. . . beyond words.  
  
Indescribable.  
  
Sheer heaven.  
  
He fits me. . . so perfectly.  
  
'But why doesn't HE see that?'  
  
It was me all along, I want to tell him, the whole time, it was me, the little boyish girl in front of you, at your side day and night, rain or shine, me who deserves you, me who needs you, me who LOVES YOU--  
  
"Buttercup?" he asks suddenly, and I twitch in surprise.  
  
"Y-yes?"  
  
"I'm really sorry. . . about what happened tonight."  
  
About what, I try to say. It's like it never happened. A bad dream. But this. . . this isn't a bad dream. It isn't a dream. It's real, his touch, his warmth, his heartbeat underneath my hands. . .  
  
"It isn't your fault," I whisper, but my words are muffled as I lean in to his clothing, bathing myself in his scent. 'Oh, GOD. . . '  
  
"Butch?" I say softly, lifting my head a bit.  
  
"Hm?"  
  
I blink a few times and take a deep breath, trying to form the words upon my lips. Me all along, me all along, me all along--  
  
He pauses and pulls away from me a bit so he can look directly at me. "What's wrong, Buttercup?" he gently urges.  
  
A lump forms at the back of my throat. "I. . . I have something to say."  
  
'Now or never, Buttercup. This chance may never come again.'  
  
He smiles his genuine smile and prompts, "Yes?"  
  
"I. . . I. . . "  
  
'Before he leaves, before he takes off, before he finds the one he thinks he's been looking for all his life when that one is supposed to be me, me, ME--'  
  
". . . I want you to know. . . "  
  
'. . . that I've dreamed about you for ten long years. That I would've given everything for you any given hour of the day, if only I could be "The Other Girl." That I love you. Plain and simple, pure as fact. And couldn't you find it in your heart, in one tiny little corner of your heart, to reconsider falling in love with me, lonely little Buttercup, your best friend. . . '  
  
". . . before you go. . . "  
  
I bunch up the loose cloth of his shirt in my hands, my heart furiously pumping blood to every bit of my body. My jaw quavers as I look up at him, smiling at me, smiling that smile he's always reserved specifically for his best friend, for me. . .  
  
'Last chance, Buttercup. . . '  
  
'I'M IN LOVE WITH YOU.'  
  
Suddenly I throw my arms around his neck and lift my feet off the ground as I hug his body to mine, bare skin brushing against bare skin as my face meets his. . .  
  
***  
  
"I'M GOING TO MISS YOU."  
  
***  
  
The word come out a fierce whisper in his hair, my cheek pressed against his.  
  
***  
  
Goodbye last chance.  
  
***  
  
He tenses a bit at first out of shock, but quickly relaxes, and I can feel him smile as he returns my embrace, but I'm not smiling, not me, not me. . .  
  
My brow furrows and my eyes squeeze tightly shut, a dry sob threatening to wrack my body at any given moment.  
  
'You lost it,' I think bitterly to myself.  
  
'Last chance and you lost it, you let it go. . . '  
  
'You lose.'  
  
He gently pries my arms from around his neck and it's hard for me to mask my disappointment in myself as he looks at me. He wraps his arms around me once more and rests my head on his shoulder. Soon we begin swaying in time to the music again, listlessly, carelessly.  
  
It was me all along.  
  
Me all alone.  
  
The music plays itself quietly in the background.  
  
Smoothly, softly, he presses his lips to my neck and whispers to me. . .  
  
"I'm gonna miss you more."  
  
  
  
*end pt. VI*  
  
once again, go to my lj for the whole authors' notes explanations. leave a post if you feel so inclined. thank you ever so much for reading!  
  
oh, and I don't often do this, but you MUST read emerald evanescence by deuteriuM Xtreme. It is like. . . "buttercup angst god." you read it and. . . oh god. it's SOOOOO good. go read, damn you!  
  
i still have yet to update my "favorites" list, but hopefully it'll be up soon. . . but until then go read dX's fic. it roxors major ass.  
  
oh, and let me know in the review whether the rating should go up. my personal views still go with pg-13, but you guys might feel otherwise, so be sure to tell me!  
  
-jen 


	8. Your Lesson for the Week

a list of the things jen has done since last her update of "a skirt for sunday evening"  
  
i have received all a's the first 6 weeks.  
  
i have gone shopping and purchased over $40 worth of merchandise from hot topic.  
  
i have ordered a friend the complete manga set of kamikaze kaitou jeanne for christmas.  
  
i have located christmas presents from last year i intended to give last year.  
  
i have turned 17.  
  
i have been happy.  
  
i have been depressed.  
  
i have been happy.  
  
i have been aggravated with the drop in grades my 2nd 6 weeks.  
  
i have burned hundreds of cds of anime.  
  
i have fallen in love. *starts laughing* naw, i haven't. though i have watched the ridiculous couples around me and have marvelled at how happy i am with being single. gives me more time to write :)  
  
speaking of which, i have been inspired to write at least 5 other stories ppg exclusive; not necessarily romantic.  
  
i have purchased the ppg movie.  
  
i have watched said movie only 2.5 times. ;_;  
  
i have purchased a total of 10+ movies @ 5 dollars each. XD  
  
i have lived on turkey leftovers for weeks.  
  
i have received a 1260 on my sat 1 (bleah :P).  
  
i have taken the math level 1c sat 2.  
  
i have registered for the act.  
  
i have sliced at least 10 inches of hair off my head. my neck feels so NAKED.  
  
as you can tell, i've been quite busy. i would be inclined to give you a list of things yet to come, including 10+ choir concerts @_@ *is going to die* and finals next week, in addition to college applications, but i've taken up enough space as it is. i wrote this little thingy before my birthday and intended to release it on my birthday (oct. 10) but ended up. . . not. hehe. about 2 months late. i'll talk about the next part of "skirt" later (which is approximately 97% done) but for now, take some time to read this short ditty. the author spent quite a bit of time analyzing it like the complete and total loser she is :9  
  
-jen  
  
  
  
  
*A Skirt for Sunday Evening*  
  
~Your Lesson for the Week~  
songbirdjen  
  
  
[Scene is completely white, with no discernible corners nor indications of it being a room of any sort. Footsteps are heard echoing in the distance, continually growing louder and, apparently, closer. Finally a girl of about 16 steps into view, sporting olive green corduroys, an orange military-styled belt with a silver/black dragon buckle, a purple tie-dyed ppg shirt, a pink ppg watch on her left wrist, a green McCoy's bandanna on her head, bright red sunglasses, and 2-inch high chunky black shoes. You can't tell she's asian b/c of the glasses reflecting the light, but her hair is black and "shoots" down her back to her waist. Around her neck is a black cord, the pendant of which is a smiling Buttercup head]  
  
  
  
weird-dressed chick {clearing throat}: Hi. This would be songbirdjen (the one, the only!). I realize the majority of you reading this are expecting part 7. . . or is it 8? Anyway, I know you're probably only reading this because you think it's the next part of "A Skirt for Sunday Evening," and, um. . . {starts to fidget nervously}. . . it's not.  
  
  
  
[songbirdjen immediately ducks just as random items come flying at her, obviously aimed toward her head and with the intent of doing permanent damage to her body. Among the plethora of items are an old boot, computer keyboard, porcelain kitchen sink, ironing board, tv remote, stereo speaker, a PS2 (i wish), accordian, and a life-size electronic mooing cow]  
  
  
  
songbirdjen {dodging and scrambling for cover}: But hold it!  
  
  
  
[Things stop being thrown, except for one solitary red rubber ball, which songbirdjen gracefully catches with her face (that was sarcasm)]  
  
  
  
songbirdjen {readjusting her sunglasses}: I suppose I ought to apologize for the lack of "NEXT PART," but senior high school year is proving to be a real BITCH to handle thus far, so my chances to get any real writing done have been more or less ZIP-PAH {pops lips on "PAH"}. God bless my English teacher, though, who loves me and makes things all the more easier. So, today, building on a handout I received from her while studying the "Hero Cycle," I've chosen to relate how the Hero Archetype and Hero Quest apply to "A Skirt for Sunday Evening."  
  
There are twelve distinct Hero Archetypes, such as the warrior, the Creator, the Fool, etc., etc. But today, we're going to talk about. . . {pauses dramatically}. . . the Lover.  
  
  
  
[All of a sudden a screen materializes beside songbirdjen and Buttercup, college version 1.0, in jeans and a t-shirt, pops on screen, landing on the "floor" with a hard thud. She appears to have no idea where the hell she is but doesn't talk, only looks around, a sour, confused look on her face]  
  
  
  
songbirdjen {unfazed}: Yes, the Lover is considered one of the tweleve distinct Hero Archetypes.  
  
  
  
[Buttercup in the background snaps her head to and fro in confusion]  
  
  
  
songbirdjen: And every Hero has five defining characteristics, known as the Quest, the Fear, the Dragon, the Task, and the Virtue. These characteristics make up the components of the Hero Quest that our Hero--  
  
  
  
[Buttercup's head snaps up]  
  
  
  
sbj: --embarks on.  
  
  
  
[Buttercup blinks and lifts up her hands, looking back & forth between them, more confused than sour now]  
  
  
  
sbj: Now, first off, the Quest: the is the actual so-called "journey" the Hero sets out on. Many times the Hero doesn't realize she is on this Quest until it's too late to turn back. The Lover's Quest is to gain bliss. In Buttercup's case, she unknowingly falls into her Quest when she is a mere 7th grader.  
  
  
  
[As songbirdjen says this the Buttercup figure onscreen next to her pops and turns into 7th grade version Buttercup, wearing camo cargo pants and a tank top]  
  
  
  
sbj {leaning in and whispering}: Pre-chest development.  
  
  
  
[Upon hearing this Buttercup's jaw drops, her eyes widen, and she blushes angrily, crossing her arms over her chest as if to hide the fact she has such a body part]  
  
  
  
sbj {going on again}: She does so when she falls for Butch.  
  
  
  
[7th grade Butch suddenly pops on screen next to Buttercup, and smiles and waves at her. She hastily steps back and holds a nervous hand to her mouth, blushing furiously]  
  
  
  
sbj: And while she struggles with her feelings for him, her subconscious falls deeper in love and pulls her into the Quest equally deep, so by the time she formally acknowledges she's in love with him she's passed the point of no return.  
  
  
  
[Buttercup bites her lip and warily reaches out to Butch right before he disappears. She blinks furiously, as if breaking from a trance, and stares dejectedly at the place he just stood]  
  
  
  
sbj: She will not gain true bliss, or be ultimately happy, until Butch loves her back, and thus begins her pseudo-subconscious Quest. . .   
  
{pauses, contemplating those last few words and whether they exist in the English language} . . . ahem.  
  
Anyway-- {snaps fingers}  
  
  
  
[Buttercup instantly reverts back to college version 1.0, in sweatshirt & jeans]  
  
  
  
sbj: --we then have the motivating factor; the risk the Hero needs to take for the chance to succeed at her Quest.   
  
{lowers her glasses slightly} Also known as the Fear.  
  
{replaces glasses} The Lover's Fear is, as expected, the possible loss of love. With Buttercup, there are two possible factors that could be considered the Lover's Fear: first, losing Butch to another girl--  
  
  
  
[Butch & Kendall pop into place beside Buttercup, holding hands. Buttercup only stares. In an instant they disappear]  
  
  
  
sbj: And second, losing Butch because he cannot return her feelings.  
  
  
  
[Butch pops on other side of Buttercup, who turns and moves toward him, opening her mouth to speak, but he shrugs, shakes his head, and disappears again. Buttercup's face falls, and she slumps a bit]  
  
  
  
sbj: The first Fear is Buttercup's motivating factor, while the second Fear is the principle danger that may prevent her from attaining her Quest.  
  
  
  
[Buttercup closes her eyes and runs her hands through her hair]  
  
  
  
sbj: Moving on, the Task. What must be accomplished in order for success. The Lover's Task is to follow bliss. Buttercup expresses this in her ongoing feelings for Butch, despite his girlfriends, despite how long they've been friends, and despite the fact he doesn't love her back. In the "normal" Lover's Quest, the closer she stays to him, the more likely her chance for success, though that is to be debated in my story {shrugs apologetically}.  
  
  
  
[Buttercup idly rubs the back of her neck, staring at the ground]  
  
  
  
sbj: As for the Hero's Virtues, the Lover has two significant ones: Passion & Commitment. For Buttercup, Passion as demonstrated in the intensity of her feelings for Butch, Commitment as demonstrated in the incredible length of time she retains these feelings, from when she's 12 to 22.   
  
{pauses a bit. songbirdjen's voice is quiet when she speaks again}  
  
10 years is a long time to love someone and never tell.  
  
  
  
[As songbirdjen speaks, Buttercup, who's still rubbing at her neck, suddenly traces the line of a golden chain around her throat and tugs at it, the necklace Butch gave her toppling onto the top of her sweatshirt. She licks her lips and swallows thickly]  
  
  
  
sbj: And lastly, the Lover's Dragon. In the case of the Warrior, the Dragon is what the Hero slays or confronts. For the Orphan, the Dragon is what victimizes the Hero. Obviously, it varies from archetype to archetype. And in the case of the Lover, their Dragon is that which the Hero loves.  
  
  
  
[Butch appears again, smiling and gazing sweetly at Buttercup. Buttercup lets her hands fall to her sides as she looks at him]  
  
  
  
sbj: In Buttercup's case, Butch.  
  
  
  
[Butch spreads his arms, and a happy smile lights her face, and she moves to embrace him]  
  
  
  
sbj: The Lover's Dragon will be the cause of her torment and suffering.  
  
  
  
[Instead of falling into his arms, Buttercup passes through him as if he were air, stumbles, and drops to all fours. She turns her head, a broken expression on her face as she looks back at him]  
  
  
  
sbj: Standing right in front of her, but always hopelessly out of reach.  
  
  
  
[He shakes his head and smiles apologetically, disappearing. Her lower jaw quivers a bit and her eyes shimmer]  
  
  
  
sbj: Equally blissful and equally hurtful.  
  
  
  
[Buttercup closes her eyes and sighs, kneeling and burying her head in her hands, her hair dangling around her face. songbirdjen silently tugs at the bottom of the screen, and it curls up, Buttercup with it. songbirdjen removes the tube and tucks it under her arm, salutes the imaginary audience, and steps off]  
  
  
  
-||end lesson||-  
  
  
***  
  
  
i can name a number of people right now who i'm sure are very pissed off at me now. well, if it makes you feel better, the final part (yes, FINAL!) part of "a skirt for sunday evening" should be up within a few days. it's proving to be. . . epic. and has gone through much contemplation by me. specifically about whether i should be doing some additional editing, though in my opinion the rating doesn't exceed the most recent chapter's rating. i warned youse guys there, and you seemed cool with it, so this next chapter shouldn't be too bad. yep, it's going up without any more revisions. as for the rest of the fic, we'll see.  
  
i was really embarrassed about the abysmal amount of typos i had in the last chapter. so i'll do my best to make sure this next one is done correctly. maybe i should get a proofreader. . . any takers? e-mail me at phej_0910@hotmail.com or something. . . or leave a post in my "writing projects' lj" (songbirdjen, not jenparakeet; that's the personal one). collab project would be SOOOO neat, too. . . but i'm getting ahead of myself. first i should take care of the approximately 5+ other ppg fics i'm planning on writing. . . oh, hell, i'll list 'em here in case you're curious:  
  
3 brick/blossom fics (1, possibly 2 of which will be an epic like "skirt," so those might not take off as soon)  
  
2 boomer/bubbles (both one shots; one of them's so cute too)  
  
um. . . *starts counting on fingers* 1, 2. . . i think just 2 other butch/buttercup fics, tho they'll be looong. . . ugh, "skirt" is totally burning me out *_*  
  
some bc solo fics too. . . plus i have the "being moody" series to work on. . . geez, i'm so behind. i wanna do some fun fics too. stupid fun kind. but i don't think i'm anywhere near talented enough to write comedy ^^;  
  
geez, what the hell am i doing? this is like an lj post. dammit. it's so long. oh. notes about this "lesson" part: yeah, my hair is really short now. and yes, those are all actual articles of clothing i own (i think i was wearing them at the time i wrote this, so i just listed 'em off on paper) and maybe one of my favorite outfits, though the corduroys are getting tight now ;_; and the red glasses. . . god i love 'em. i can stare at people as i'm walking down the halls and they have no idea that i am. . . plus every time i wear 'em some random person comes up and starts worshipping me (jen gets that *glint* in her eye). . .   
  
again, i'm actually 17 now. um. . . whee. . . i like johnny the homicidal maniac. DAMMIT! why am i writing so friggin' much? and why are you still reading? oh. the red rubber ball that i so gracefully caught with my face at the beginning was paying homage to the red rubber ball in the ppg movie.  
  
and fyi, because. . . was it jackal? who asked, ib stands for international baccalaureate at my school. it's basically this really advanced program where the students who are enrolled in it have a bottomless pit of work to do for their classes: extended essays, internal assessments, and the like. 50% of the students in it are actually hard workers and lose sleep and develop health problems because they put schoolwork before sleep and eating and breathing; the other 50% are the hugest slackers in the world yet manage to pass their classes because they're naturally intelligent and exchange assignments. plus they're the hugest bs'ers in the history of mankind. even worse than us tag kids (points to self) i'm not actually in ib. . . i'm friends with dozens of 'em, tho, from both castes, hell if i know how i became their sex symbol. . . maybe it was my awesome red sunglasses of godly might.  
  
um, and what type of asian? aw, where would the mystery be if i told you guys? *ahem* not korean, not japanese, not vietnamese, not filipino. . . chinese. just chinese. i've totally forgotten the language; i'm a horrible testament to my culture. don't look at me :9  
  
DAMMIT!!!! WHY THE HELL DID I TYPE SO MUCH?!?! ARGH!!! PART 7 IS COMING IN A FEW DAYS ONCE I GET IT FINISHED AND TYPED UP!!! DAMMIT!!!! I TYPED UP TOO MUCH!!!! YES!!!! IT'S THE LAST PART OF "A SKIRT FOR SUNDAY EVENING!!!" DAMMIT!!! TOO MUCH!!! I'M REALLY PISSED AT MYSELF NOW!!! ARGGHHHHH!!!! *runs away to study for damn bio quiz DAMMIT!!!*  
  
most of you will probably pray you'll never meet me in person :) i'm friendly, really i am. . . DAMMIT!!! STOP TYPING!!!  
  
-jen ARGGH!!! 


	9. Part VII

i originally had something in here about how i wasn't sure if wingzero had received my stuff but then i checked my e-mail and you had so never mind and thanks :) if anyone else is wondering, wingzero has now been recruited as my editor/proofer/guinea pig. smiles around! especially about the guinea pig part (no offense meant :9)  
  
the word of this chapter: the 's' word. boy is it said a lot. boy is it ever.   
  
get back to me on the rating guys, tho i'm sure by this time the majority of people reading this aren't going to be too offended or conservative; to me it's about on par with the last one. i guess. . . i dunno. but say pg-13 or r or what. i tried to go by what one might see on tv, tho that's not always a very good standard ¬ ¬ . . . tho, wingzero, i do agree with what you said in your e-mail regarding the rating.  
  
this is the final chapter of "a skirt for sunday evening." you have been warned.  
  
so read while i go prep for singing around town all day tomorrow and finishing up my college application.  
  
whee. i run now.  
  
and just for the record moxy fruvous is excellent music.  
  
-jen  
  
  
  
*A Skirt for Sunday Evening* pt. VII  
~-songbirdjen-~  
  
  
  
"I think I could go for one of those homemade margaritas right about now, Buttercup."  
  
I squeeze my eyes shut and try to quell the pounding in my head. Alcohol tends to have that effect on me. "You've already had three. What the hell are you talking about?" The words come out very slowly and pronounced, in a manner I hope eliminates the slurring of speech.   
  
"Yeah, well, you only put 1/3 the normal liquor content in them anyway, so mathematically, I've only had one. Wait. . . yeah, one." Butch swings his head and smiles at me. He's always been able to put away a whole shitload of the stuff before he passes out. Me, I have more than two drinks and can't tell you my head from my ass.  
  
"Come on, Buttercup," Butch pleads, and leans so his arms drape around my shoulders and his cheek falls next to mine. "Come on," he repeats. "Hit me."  
  
"I will, if you don't get offa me within the next two seconds."  
  
"Damn, you're no fun," he whines, but doesn't move, instead opens his eyes and blinks at me, looking into my eyes. He grins. "I think you're drunk."  
  
"It doesn't exactly take a rocket scientist to see THAT," I retort, eyes rolling. And rolling. And rolling.  
  
"No, no, they're all. . . glazed. . . ish." He waves a hand in front of my eyes. "I don't get it. You haven't even finished your first glass."  
  
"Because I don't drink as frickin' often as you do, you nitwit."  
  
"Well then, we gotta build up that tolerance level of yers, don't we?"  
  
And he takes my still more-than-half-full glass and presses its icy cold rim to my lips, and instead of resisting I willingly part my mouth and allow him to tip the liquid down my throat. It stings as it goes down, which I suppose is penance for refusing myself a final confession when it was most appropriate. . .   
  
The glass leaves my lips and I squeeze my eyes shut tightly to try and stop that horrid pounding in my brain. When I open them again Butch is raising it to his own mouth and downs the rest of it in one gulp.  
  
"God DAMN, how do you do that," I mutter incredulously. The pounding hasn't stopped yet.  
  
He stifles a burp. "Practice."  
  
"Wasn't that supposed to be mine?"  
  
"YOU weren't drinking it." He grins mischievously and sticks his tongue out at me.   
  
I can't bear to look at him; I sit back on the couch and close my eyes. The ceiling of our dorm fades from my gaze.   
  
Butch sighs contentedly and I open my eyes again to find himself depositing his head on my lap, and all of me wants to shove him away and all of me wants to keep him here with me forever.  
  
"Hmm. . . kinda reminds you of Freshman Homecoming, eh?" he remarks, and traces circles on my knee.  
  
I blink slowly and open and close my mouth again and again, but words don't find their way through. I try not to think about happy endings and fail miserably. I never have any when it comes to him, so what does it matter anyway?  
  
"Oh, come on, Buttercup," Butch pouts, and reaches up to my face. "Smile."  
  
A strand of my hair falls to meet his hand and he accepts it willingly, toying with it so the tips brush against my eyelid. "You know I love to see you smile."  
  
I take a shuddering breath and pull away from his hand, which trails down the length of my neck and shoulder and arm and plays with the sleeve of my shirt.   
  
I don't mean for the next words to come out of my mouth, but they do regardless, a whisper in the dimly lit room.   
  
"Do you play with Kendall like this?"  
  
He stops moving. Stops breathing, even, maybe. I know I have.  
  
"How do you mean?" he asks carefully, staring at the creases in the cuff of the shirt. Without waiting for an answer, he suddenly smiles. "Are you implying that I'm flirting with you?"  
  
"I--"  
  
He hoists himself up, his arms encircling my neck as he rests his chin on my shoulder. "I always feel so comfortable with you," he admts quietly, and I hear the smile in his tone, an indication only of his friendship.  
  
Nothing more.  
  
Never anything more.  
  
"I like how you're always here for me," he continues.  
  
I really don't think I can take listening to him right now, but being stupid like that I do it anyway.  
  
"Whatever happens I know you'll always be right there with me when it does," he says, his breath cooling my skin.  
  
'There's a reason for that,' I want to say. I don't say anything.  
  
Silence pervades the air of the room for a minute or so. I spend that time considering whether I should scream or laugh or break down and cry. I'm so close to giving up. . .   
  
. . . that myabe I already have.  
  
Instead I part my lips and offer, "So you wanted another margarita?"  
  
***  
  
"Dude, this place is in serious need of some myu-ZAK," Butch groans loudly, heading for the stereo. "You got a CD in here?"  
  
"Beats me," I call as I pour two glassfuls of margarita-y goodness.   
  
Music wafts into the semi-kitchen where I'm stationed. Butch appears in the doorway, smiling. "Moxy Fruvous. Hell, yeah," he growls, nodding happily.  
  
"The Drinking Song?" I snort, thoroughly amused. "How fitting."  
  
"Tis good stuff it is, lassie," he says in his hideous butchering of a Scottish accent. I only laugh.   
  
He takes his mug in his hands and looks at me pointedly. "Thank you."  
  
"De nada."  
  
Against the slamming protests of my brain I lift the glass and take a long swig. When I pull it away I'm surprised to discover I've already downed half of it.  
  
Butch gives a low whistle. "Smooth, Buttercup."  
  
"You were the one who was talking about raising my tolerance level," I mumble with some difficulty. Dizziness. Ow. I start giggling uncontrollably and raise a hand to my teeth. "This song makes a lot of sense when you're totally. . . um. . . "  
  
"Smashed?" Butch offers, and moves to my side. "Bombed? Hammered? Buzzed? Blitzed? Or how about just filthy stinkin' DRUNK?"  
  
"'Ever notice how drinking's like war?'" I sing along with the song, still unable to stop laughing. I stumble back a bit, and of course Butch catches me and steadies me AGAIN.  
  
"And to think you've barely had two," Butch comments, and wraps his arms around me from behind, swinging us back and forth in time to the music. My giggling subsides as I feel his cheek pressed to mine.  
  
"I like this song," I say stupidly, for lack of anything else to say, besides THAT--  
  
"Yeah. . . this is my favorite part," he quips, and starts singing along. "'Think of bombs. . . we're poised on the edge of disaster. . . '"  
  
I pick up where he left off. "'Whether it's right or it's wrong. . . '"  
  
"'We opened the window--'"  
  
"'Played some Nintendo.'"  
  
And we both mumble quietly together, smiling, "'Sang a few bars of some pretty old song. . . '"  
  
I drift off as he continues alone. "Irene, good night. . . Irene, good night. . . good night, Irene, good night, Irene. . . '" He chuckles softly and leans in to my hair.  
  
"'I'll see you. . . in my dreams,'" he whispers, and I wish it were really, for once, really, truly directed toward me, and me alone.   
  
'What is it going to take?' I ask myself, even as his arms leave my body. 'What is it going to take for you to finally see. . . see me?'  
  
I scrape my hand across the countertop as he says he has to go drop something or other off for Kendall. I barely pay attention as he continues to speak.  
  
'I'm not 12 anymore. . . I haven't been for a long time.'  
  
I breathe heavily and listen to Butch shuffling around in the dorm. 'We're only friends to you, to you, to you I'm just your friend, your best friend, but what about me because you're not you haven't been for years why can't you see that WHAT'S IT GOING TO TAKE--'  
  
That's what my thoughts are, a jumbled mass of incomprehensible speech, meaningless, completely meaningless, even as he turns to me and says, "Be back in a few, Buttercup," I'm sick of waiting, sick of waiting for him, because that's all I EVER do--  
  
"Butch."  
  
He spins on his foot and looks back at me. "Yes, Buttercup?"  
  
And now. . .   
  
I stare directly at him, and as always his eyes are lifted inquisitively, shining, his genuine smile, no, MY genuine smile ever present on his expression. "What's up, Buttercup?"  
  
His voice sounds quiet, patient. It makes me blush, and I lower my head, concealing my face in shadows. "I. . . I. . . " I knit my brow and close my eyes. "I don't know. I. . . can't remember." I clench and unclench my teeth several times.  
  
Shit.  
  
Momentary pause. "Um. . . ok, then, I guess I'll see you in a minute or two, chica," he says, and I hear him start to shuffle away. . .   
  
I shoot through the air like a bullet and halt a few feet from the doorway in front of him. "Wait," I whisper, even before my hair has a chance to settle.  
  
He stops on command. "Yes?" he questions, eyes lifted, curious.   
  
And I lose the words again, and lose myself in his eyes. My stomach tightens, and I turn my head to the ground. "I. . . um, you. . . "  
  
His brow furrows. "You might wanna tell me this when you're NOT drunk, Buttercup. Now quit foolin' around, I'll be right back. . . " he assures me, reaching for my arm.  
  
My head snaps up.  
  
"I LOVE YOU."  
  
***  
  
His hand twitches and stops inches from my skin.  
  
My eyes are glistening as I focus unfocus focus unfocus on his face, the outline of his body smudging then clearing again & again in my vision. He's not smiling anymore.  
  
The room is deathly quiet.  
  
Almost as if. . . as if everything's being played out in black & white.  
  
Colorless.  
  
My chest contracts, holds and cramps and doesn't relax, and why don't I just throw up so the stomach acid eating away at my insides doesn't kill me before he answers. . .   
  
His mouth separates slightly in what isn't a frown but can't be called a smile either. . . The brightness in his eyes dulls and darkens, his brow furrows, and he blinks, once, then twice, then again and again, and his eyes dart away to the side, from empty air to empty air, then to the floor, then back to me, then away again, then back, away, back, back, away. . .   
  
His outstretched hand draws back a bit, then moves forward for mine again, and then finally a falls to his side, bumping limply into place.  
  
His breathing isn't erratic, or frantic, but slow, deep, like sighing. And then that's the only sound in the room, his breathing, his deep, heavy breathing, echoing in my head matching the pace of my heartbeat as it POUNDPOUNDPOUNDS my blood. . .   
  
And what? WHAT? Please, Jesus, Oh Christ Christ CHRIST. . . SAY SOMETHING!  
  
To my imminent surprise he looks at me and. . . and. . . he weakly cracks a smile.  
  
Oh GOD.  
  
He gets it.  
  
This is impossible this is not happening--  
  
"Aw, Buttercup," he grins, sighing, relieved. . . relieved? "That's so SWEET."   
  
And suddenly he strides towards me, takes me by my shoulders and lowers his eyelids and leans down, and on impulse I close my eyes and tilt my face up to his but I can't help thinking there's something amiss--  
  
His lips fall on my cheek.  
  
"I love you too."  
  
Nothing more than a whisper.  
  
Something wrong something wrong something wrong. . .   
  
"I don't think I could ask for a sweeter girl than you to be my best friend."  
  
I'm suddenly enveloped in cold.  
  
. . . no.  
  
Nonononono not again--  
  
"It's good--"  
  
Stop!  
  
"--to know--"  
  
This isn't what I meant that wasn't what I meant--  
  
"--that I--"  
  
You don't understand--  
  
"--can always--"  
  
Why don't you ever understand--  
  
"--count on you--"  
  
YOU'RE KILLING ME  
  
"--to be there for me."  
  
WHY CAN'T YOU EVER UNDERSTAND?!?!  
  
My mouth refuses to move, voice refuses to speak.  
  
He pulls back slightly and mumbles, without looking at me, "You know, for a moment there, I. . . I thought. . . " He lifts his eyes to mine, glazed and unfocused, as if he's staring off into space. ". . . I-I thought you meant. . . "  
  
Swallow. Breathe. Look at me and say it, for once, just once, just. . .   
  
He hesitates, and smiles again. "It. . . it's not important."  
  
Just stop.  
  
"Back in a few," he sharply chirps, and. . . leaves.  
  
Don't do this to me again.  
  
He's already disappeared from the kitchen doorway when my voice finally finds itself.  
  
"Wait."  
  
My voice is so. . . weak.  
  
"You don't understand, Butch."  
  
My body finally gets the message, and I hover, struggling for balance THAT GODDAMN ALCOHOL--  
  
"That's not what I meant," I cry feebly, and dash toward the door just as it slams in my face.  
  
"That's not--!"  
  
My face falls and my feet touch solid ground again as I reach a hand for the doorknob, then hesitate.  
  
". . . not what I meant. . . "  
  
Every joint in my body tingles numbly.  
  
My face suddenly contorts and I crumple against the door why don't you understand why can't you understand and no I will not cry I won't cry can't wont don't don't DON'T--!  
  
My eyes sting with unshed tears and frantic sobs shake my body but no no tears I will not let myself cry don't cry Buttercup don't cry why don't you understand--  
  
"I LOVE YOU," I whisper hoarsely into the wood and slide to my knees on the floor running my hand up and down the coarse surface never understand never do never will what's wrong with me. . . ?  
  
I curl myself up in a ball and blink away the unshed tears.  
  
***  
  
What's wrong with me.  
  
I shuffle into the bathroom to splash some water on my face and make the sad mistake of looking in the mirror.   
  
I.  
  
LOOK.  
  
LIKE.  
  
SHIT.  
  
What the hell, what the GOD DAMN HELL was I THINKING!!  
  
What the hell am I doing dressed like this, in a skirt, in heels, in anything other than jeans and a sweatshirt and WHY DID I LET THEM TOUCH MY HAIR?!?!  
  
With a cry of rage I snatch at the pins in my head and roughly jerk them out, blindly, grabbing as many of them as I can at one time and throwing them in the sink, most of them sliding down the drain. All those little pricks of pain in my scalp are probably the hair follicles I'm ripping out with a total lack of regard for and one of these God damn pins is stuck is stuck get out get out GET OUT GODDAMMIT YOU STUPID PIECE OF SHIT PIN!!!  
  
Frustrated, completely and totally utterly frustrated I swipe at the air, spin around ungraciously and topple onto the toilet, and I thank God it's closed or I would've fallen in for sure. Another stifled cry and I slam a fist into my knee, again and again and again, biting back my sobs, my tears, my wretched little cries because he won't hear them anyway so what's the use no use no use IT'S NEVER ANY USE AND IT NEVER MAKES A DIFFERENCE.  
  
Suddenly I feel tired, so incredibly tired and worn and dead, and my fist drops, unclenched, into my lap. My lower lip twitches every now and then, every other breath I take catches in my throat and chokes me. Half of my hair hangs in my face, limp and tangled, and I sweep the strands away from my eyes like curtains and bury my head in my hands.  
  
Me all along.  
  
Me all alone.  
  
"You look like you could use some help."  
  
My hands slide from my face and I turn my gaze upward to see Butch.  
  
He smiles softly and enters the bathroom.  
  
I follow him with my eyes, my cold, dead, careless eyes, he can't see the hurt, the pain, the feeble exhaustion of waiting, and waiting, and waiting. . .   
  
I breathe slow and steady as he sits himself on the bathroom counter so his stomach is level to my face. On leg rests on the counterside and the other stretches out a bit across my legs, and I adjust so he can rest it on the edge of the seat.  
  
"Thanks," he says gratefully, his hands already gently plucking out the pins and dropping them into my lap.  
  
I don't respond.  
  
I only lower my eyes and lean my head forward until it bumps his leg, and I rest there as he dutifully separates pins from my hair, one after the other, again and again.  
  
And I wait awhile longer, just awhile longer, just in case, in case he gets it for once, for once, for once--  
  
'I LOVE YOU.'  
  
I cannot say it a third time.  
  
But it doesn't matter, not really. He never gets it anyway.  
  
***  
  
I curl my legs under me and lean on the arm of the courch, tracing the rim of my empty glass with my hand. I raise it to my mouth and click my teeth against it. The sound echoes in the room.  
  
"I. . . don't shuppoze yee-oo wananuthuh glasssh. . . ?" Butch slurs beside me. I lost count of how many he's had within the past half-hour since he returned from Kendall's.  
  
I shake my head, don't loook at him. "Mm-mm."  
  
"She-oot yershelf." He examines his own glass, seeming to concentrate as hard as he can on it, then suddenly brings it to his lips and downs the rest of it in one clean shot down his throat. He lowers it again and blinks blearily at it, narrowing his eyes, then settles the cup on the coffee table, where it tilts a bit unsteadily at first but eventually clatters into place. With a heavy sigh he leans back against the couch and lolls his head to the side to look at me.  
  
I feel his eyes on me but don't return his gaze.  
  
Endless moments pass before he sighs again and the pressure of his eyes leaves my body. I set my glass down on the endtable next to the lamp and watch his faint reflection in the clear glass. I watch as he grunts slightly and tries to stand, but ends up falling back on the couch.  
  
"Guess not. Hehe. . . " he mumbles, and begins giggling, abruptly stops.  
  
I remain expressionless and slump down further on my side of the couch, resting my head on its arm atop my folded hands. My now loose hair slides across my eyes, and I watch the room through scant black threads.  
  
"Dishjoo--" Butch starts, then coughs and clears his throat."Did joo haffa good time today?" he asks, doing his best to speak clearly.  
  
I don't say anything, only blink, my eyelids heavy from sleep and alcohol and holding back tears.   
  
Suddenly Butch crawls on top of me and wraps his arms around me, his head resting in the curve of my neck, and my eyes snap wide open.  
  
"Buttercup. . . " he whispers, and I detect the light smell of alcohol on his breath. ". . . what's wrong?"  
  
"Get off me, Butch," I mutter. I'm too depressed to even notice my quickening heartbeat.  
  
"Was zit shomething I did?" he continues, without taking note of my request.  
  
"Butch, get off--"  
  
"Whatever it was, I'm shorry," he whispers on my throat, and tilts my head and raises his so our foreheads bump against each other.  
  
Too close. . .   
  
A hot blush spreads across my face.  
  
Pounding.  
  
Everything pounding.  
  
The pounding in my head is deafening. The pounding in my chest feels like it's going to rip me apart.  
  
Suddenly Butch grins. "You know, if we were Eshkimoes, we'd be kishing right now," he giggles, then pauses. "Of courshe, that would make more shensh if we had nose-shesh to begin with."  
  
I only try to back my head into the courch arm, muscles tense.  
  
Butch blinks a few times, then remarks, smiling brightly, "That lip balm. . . it makesh you shmell like coconut," and he gives a short laugh.  
  
Then the smile abruptly drops.  
  
"I wonder if it makes you taste like coconut too."  
  
Without warning his tongue darts out and separates my lips and my eyes widen and my chest swells as his mouth presses hard against mine oh God he's kissing me he's kissing me. . . !  
  
I push against him weakly with my hands because I don't want this to happen, partly because he's drunk and I"m nowhere near sober either, and partly because I don't want him to hate himself when he wakes up, don't want to hate myself, don't want us to hate each other, don't want him to hate ME. . .   
  
But I feel his lips on mine, taste sweet and tangy alcohol on his tongue and my resistance fades, my hands instead of pushing him away pressing limply on his chest and I move to return his kiss but he suddenly snaps his eyes wide open and jerks away from me, eyes round with fear--fear?--and pants heavily, "Oh, shit, Buttercup, I-I-I didn't mean--"  
  
I don't want to hear it.  
  
I grab him by the collar and yank him back to me, eyes closed and mouth parted anticipating his kiss and eagerly welcoming his lips when they fall upon mine. The rest of his words are muffled in my mouth and he gives a stifled cry of surprise--  
  
I squeeze my eyes shut and clasp my arms around his neck, pressing his head closer against mine and meshing my lips against his, God his lips are so sweet and warm and soft. . .   
  
So what if we hate each other in the morning, so what if we both hate me for doing this and regret it forever how could I regret this I'll never have him anyway so please let me have him tonight God please let me have him JUST THIS ONCE TONIGHT. .   
  
The words repeat themselves over and over again in my mind as I move forward and push us both off the couch, Butch hitting the floor first and me landing on top of him, lips locked tight against each other's all the while.  
  
Butch tries to shake his head away from me but I latch onto him tightly I'm not going to give him up this time this time never again. . .   
  
. . . and suddenly. . .   
  
. . . he stops fighting to get away and slowly starts to kiss me back.  
  
His arms snake around my spine and hug me closer, and I run my hands through his hair again and again the strands slick and smooth against my skin and move my lips on his, my tongue flickering out every now and then to trace the swell of his lips on mine--  
  
Suddenly he sits up and we separate, gasping for air and he whispers fiercely, "Buttercup. . . I-I can't, I have. . . I have to tell you something, I can't--"  
  
I won't hear it.  
  
I said I didn't WANT to hear it.  
  
I clench my teeth and pull him by his collar close to me and growl "SHUT UP" and take his lips in mine again and fall back against the carpet, dragging him down with me.  
  
'Ten years,' I think to myself as he gives up gives in and leans agsint me, 'ten years of loving every little thing he does, says, treasuring every last bit of him that I could get and still wanting more, still wanting this, still wanting HIM--'  
  
And it heightens the swell in my chest as I think to myself, and I kiss him harder, and to my insatiable delight he kisses me back, our lips working over each other's again and again, and damned if he doesn't taste like coconut now too. . .   
  
I stop thinking about what if we regret it, what if Kendall walks in right now, what if something happens and we never speak to each other ever again and only meet his mouth with mine over and over as we scoot back, back until my head bumps against the wall and I sit up, eyes flickering open to make sure this is real, this is really happening, and his hair tickles my eyelids and it is, it IS real, and I close my eyes again and slide my arms from his neck and against his chest and as they slide toward his stomach and start to tug up the hem of his shirt I think '22 is old enough isn't it isn't it isn't it--'  
  
Butch pushes my hands away and pulls back to breathe again, whispering frantically, "No, Buttercup, not that," and I run my hands up to his shoulders and push back his overshirt, ignoring him--  
  
He snatches my hands and presses them against the wall, hissing, "We can't, we can't, I have to tell you--have to tell you--we can't do this, remember--remember 7th grade--"  
  
And I can hear his words before he speaks.  
  
'A test of our friendship.'  
  
'It doesn't change anything.'  
  
'It doesn't MEAN anything.'  
  
No, Butch. You're wrong. It means EVERYTHING.  
  
Everything to me.  
  
". . I have to tell you something. . . I have to let you know. . . "  
  
Before I have to hear those horrid things for real I rip my hands from his grasp, take his face in my hands and whimper, "Just shut up, goddammit, goddammit, just shut up, PLEASE," and press my open mouth to his once more, etching every single crevice of his mouth, of his entire body into my memory with my tongue and lips and hands I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU SO MUCH--  
  
His taste fills my mouth and I nip lightly at his lips that taste like him taste like me like me&him and him&me together have you any idea how beautiful you are and how much I love you. . . ?  
  
Of course he doesn't but at least he doesn't pull away anymore, doesn't stop my hands from pushing off the shoulders of his overshirt or tugging up his white t-shirt and pressing my hands against his bare chest underneath it. . .   
  
One last try. He tears himself away.  
  
"Buttercup. . . we. . . CAN'T--"  
  
And he stops and returns to me on his own, kissing me so hard and deep the world around us swims and it feels for sure we're falling back oh God I'm so dizzy Butch I love you--  
  
He slips his arm from the overshirt sleeve and takes my chin in his hand, grasping it and brushing his lips against it before returning to my mouth and tracing the corners of my lips with his tongue. . .   
  
I shift my hands down to his waist and tug his belt loops toward my hips. He separates his lips from mine to breathe and watches my mouth under heavy-lidded eyes and then his hand tickles my stomach and moves up and under my shirt, the buttons slowly popping from their holes and midway up he closes his eyes and I close mine and we feverishly kiss each other again and as his hand undoes the final top button of my shirt and wraps around my bare back my own hands move along the hem of his jeans and start to fiddle with the buckle of his belt, thinking all the while 'How could we hate each other in the morning one night just one one night won't hurt he could love me just this one night couldn't he couldn't you Butch love me just one night as much as Iloveyou--'  
  
As I think to myself I intensify the kiss, our teeth bumping roughly against each other's, and I feel his hand at the hem of my skirt slowly sliding it up my thigh and desire surges through my body and I tug fervently at his belt, and finally FINALLY he pushes my wrists away and fumbles anxiously with his belt buckle and the second he slides it off and tosses it aside I press my hands to his stomach and slide them down under the waist of his jeans, down until--  
  
"HOLY SHIT!"  
  
Butch suddenly screams and as he jerks himself away I snap my hands from him, startled as he turns his back to me and buries his head in his hands and as I sit there absolute horror washes over me Oh my God we were so close so close oh shit What have I done What have I done How could we do that?!  
  
Nonono everything is ruined oh shit oh shit oh SHIT Buttercup you IDIOT YOU IDIOT oh SHIT!!!  
  
"Oh, shit," Butch whispers, and he runs his hands through his hair and clasps the sides of his head, shaking it back and forth-- "Oh shit shit shit shit SHIT!! Goddammit, I'm such an idiot, oh SHIT!"  
  
He breathes frantically and suddenly whirls around and starts, "Butter--" but then his eyes widen and jaw drops and he blushes something fierce and I follow his gaze, glance down, scream, "SHIT!!!" and try to button my shirt closed but the God damn things won't button GODDAMMIT and after useless fumbling with them I cry out in frustration and hastily fold the shirt over my chest and turn toward the wall, curling my legs under me and tugging down at my skirt with one hand and holding the shirt closed with the other biting back hot tears oh GODDAMMIT!!!  
  
With another stifled cry I drive my temple against the wall and shake my head and mutter quietly, "Buttercup, you idiot. . . YOU IDIOT!!!"  
  
"I know!"  
  
My head snaps to Butch and he stares at me, a pained expression on his face as he shakes his head and whispers, "God I'm such an idiot oh shit Buttercup I shouldn't have done that I shouldn't have touched you kissed you--oh, SHIT Buttercup I'm so sorry--"  
  
My eyes widen.  
  
Sorry?  
  
He's SORRY?!?!  
  
He repeats it over and over again and rage starts building in my chest Why are you sorry Butch you idiot stop taking responsibility for everything Goddammit you stupid piece of oh Goddammit just SHUT UP--  
  
"SHUT UP!!!" I screech, and the tears that have been building up for ten years spill over and flow freely down my face and sobs start to wrack my body uncontrollably and shit how come you can do this to me Butch make me lose control you stupid God damn idiot why didn't you ever see how could you never know I LOVE YOU how could you not understand?!  
  
Butch starts gasping for breath and I hear him whisper, "You're crying. . . I made you CRY." And he suddenly moves toward me and encases me in his arms, presses his lips to my tear-stained cheek and chokes on his words. . . "This is all my fault, oh Jesus Christ Buttercup I'm so sorry--"  
  
"DON'T TOUCH ME!!!" I shriek, and jerk myself away as I stand and whirl toward him, teeth grit and angry tears streaming everywhere.  
  
Butch abruptly stands with me, and as he looks at me his mouth separates slightly and his lower jaw trembles his brow furrows and he's scared of what of losing me of losing my friendship this is about fucking FRIENDSHIP?!?  
  
YOU IDIOT!!!  
  
THIS HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH FRIENDSHIP!!!  
  
"You never get it!!!" I spit at him and as he reaches for me I shake my head and tear myself away and shoot out the window, glass shattering around me, and hear him yell, "BUTTERCUP!!" and God damn I hope he doesn't follow me he never gets it you never get it you NEVER understand. . .   
  
I alight on op of one of the campus buildings and drop to my knees, lean forward so my hair curtains around my face and the tears that i can't control spatter onto the concrete, little spider drops trailing about my knees, and I can't even remember the last time I really cried though I've been coming close ever since I fell in love with--  
  
"Just give up," I find myself whispering, voice hoarse and pained form screaming. "Give up. He'll never know, never care, he already never understands--"  
  
A sob chokes my throat.  
  
I will never be the Other Girl.  
  
I swallow thickly but another sob shakes me, and no matter how many times I rub at my eyes with the sleeve of my shirt. . . no, Butch's shirt. . . the tears always come.  
  
I lie on my side, my hair forming a thin black pillow for my cheek, and as I let the tears fall I listen to the absolute silence of the late night-early morning and marvel at how no matter where I go it's always me all alone.  
  
***  
  
I can't be sure of what time it is when I make my way back to the dorm. The tiny glass shards that should've been in the window are gone, and as I step inside and look around I realize the entire place is completely spotless. Apparently I've been gone long enough for Butch to clean the whole dorm. I run my hand along the window frame. He must've taken care of the glass too. My eyes fall upon his sleeping form on the floor in the middle of the room, and I approach him and pry the empty bottle of tequila from his hand. Little cards surround him and I pick one up and examine it.  
  
A photo.  
  
Of us.  
  
All photos of us.  
  
Scattered around him, a pool of photographs, all of us.  
  
Only us.  
  
Only friends.  
  
One of my sweatshirts is curled in his arm under his head, serving as a pillow. I drop the photo and toss the bottle in the garbage. He's gonna have one hell of a hangover.  
  
I shower. Brush my teeth and change. Roll onto the top of the bunk bed, and eventually the alcohol I had earlier lulls me to sleep; the last image I see is Butch clutching my sweatshirt a bit tighter, the last thing I hear is his voice murmuring, "Buttercup. . . "  
  
I don't bother saying good night.  
  
***  
  
Even while intoxicated I dream a familiar dream tonight.  
  
Two dark-haired green-eyed 12 year olds sitting back to back in the gazebo of the town park. The now and forever bestest friends you'll ever find, with none of the things like romantic tension nor sentiments clouding their judgement.  
  
But a lifetime of friendship can change in one moment of one afternoon.  
  
One of them leans forward, turns a bit. She smiles, and laughs, and opens her mouth to speak, and without warning he turns, takes her face in his hands, and presses his mouth to hers.  
  
And she loses her voice to his.  
  
Every single color in the park fades to a murky, unrecognizable grey, but the two remain as dark-haired & green-eyed as ever.   
  
When he finally, finally pulls away, she blinks and stares up at him, and he's not 12 anymore, but 22, and he smile and kneels in front of her still tiny 12 year old body and tickles her lips as his brush lightly against them one last time.  
  
His whisper is a cool breath on her chin.  
  
"I love you."  
  
A mind-blowing shatter reverberates in her head.  
  
even after he disappears she remains on her knees, mouth parted and eyes wide, staring into space and uncomprehending, and the same time the day after he arrives again, a smile lighting his beautiful 22 year old face.  
  
And it's the same as the day before.  
  
The kiss, the tickle, the "I love you. . . "  
  
He leaves and it happens the next day, and the next, and the next, over and over again, and still she remains a tiny little 12 year old nothing desperately searching for the voice she lost to his kiss the one moment of that one afternoon.  
  
But he brings it back one day.  
  
One day, as he kisses her, he breathes into her the voice she lost the first time, and she finds it, and as he pulls away, tickles her lips, and prepares to say those beautiful three words once more she becomes 22, leans her forehead against his and whispers "I love you" in a voice that still belongs to her 12 year old body, beating him to it.  
  
And just as she says it, just as she breathes his name, just as she revels in the incredible, sheer, unadulterated bliss that takes place in that breathless moment just before their lips find each other's again, she blinks--  
  
--and I'm 12, and sitting back to back with the best friend I ever had, with none of the things like kisses or tickles or "I love you's" getting in the way. . .   
  
. . . to my disappointment.  
  
Just a dream.  
  
Always just a dream.  
  
I lean forward, turn a bit. Open my mouth, sans smile, ready to say it to him, just in case it changes something, changes his mind, changes us--  
  
Without warning he turns, smiles, and says, "I hope this never changes."  
  
And leaves.  
  
The world dissolves around me.  
  
'I hope this never changes.'  
  
"But it's too late," I whisper.  
  
"It already has."  
  
***  
  
Why do I bother?  
  
Why do I do it?  
  
What does it matter anyway in the long run?  
  
The most it could ever lead to is a few dates, a few drinks, and one night where we lose it because we can't think of anything else we haven't done together already, and the morning after a breakup, and a lifetime's woth of regrets for wasting ten years so hopelessly enamored with someone I should've had the common sense not to fall for in the first place.  
  
And Butch is too special for those few dates, those few drinks, that one night. That could be any random guy on the street.  
  
I can't let that happen.  
  
But I can't let his every move, every word dictate my life for me.  
  
I don't want us to become what we could've become tonight.  
  
And I'm sick.  
  
I'm sick of it.  
  
I'm sick of you.  
  
I' so incredibly sick of it all.  
  
All those sleepless wasted nights of praying and wishing for more, for you. . .   
  
I gave you ten years to see, ten years to know, to realize, and you never once did.  
  
And I'm so tired of it.  
  
Leave.  
  
For a summer, for a year, for the rest of my life.  
  
And see if I can bother to care.  
  
I won't tie you down anymore, I'll let you go, so go. . .   
  
. . . and maybe I'll forget I ever loved you once before.  
  
***  
  
Sparks dance before my eyes as I painstakingly lift them open, rainbow-itic colors pulsing throbbing pounding in my head oh Christ I'm never drinking again.  
  
It doesn't exactly help that the sun is garishly beaming its ultraviolet rays of death right on to my face, and I squint and groan and prop myself up on shaky limbs.  
  
Big mistake.  
  
My head swims and my stomach heaves and I groan again and drop myself back onto the pillowcase, swallowing thickly and breathing slow until the urge to spew my guts out all over the dorm subsides.  
  
. . . It obviously takes a long time.  
  
Slowly but surely it fades, and the minute it does I rest the back of my hand on my forehead, eyes twitching every now and then.  
  
God, I hate you, Sun.  
  
I'm just about to try getting up again, a little slower this time, when suddenly the bathroom door clicks and Butch steps out.  
  
My tongue lodges itself in my throat as the smell of his shampoo diffuses into the air.  
  
The urge to throw up surfaces again, though for all too different reasons.  
  
"Buttercup?"  
  
I remain motionless.  
  
He clears his throat. "Are you awake?"  
  
I lower my eyelids just enough so I can watch him from the corner of my eye undetected. But I continue to lie still. How is it that he drinks five times the amount of alcohol I drank and still looks great in the morning while I feel like shit?  
  
Wearing his regular old jeans and t-shirt, he hovers and slowly approaches the bunk bed. . . and though my voice is silent, my heart tremors & screams.  
  
When he enters the shaft of light from the window the dust particles in the air catch in the sun shimmer around him as if he were some ethereal being and God you look so beautiful--  
  
My heart wails and desperately hammers against my ribcage, pleading for his touch his voice him him him because I LOVE HIM. . .   
  
Stop.  
  
You have to let go, forget, he'll leave, he'll leave, and what will you have after that?  
  
My head and my heart tear each other to pieces as he reaches me and drapes his arms in the crooks of his elbows. He leans on the mattress, the springs creaking next to my head as he presses down. The shadow of the window blinds rests on the side of his face, alternating slats of light & dark on his cheek.  
  
My heart drowns in its adrenaline.  
  
But still I refuse to move.  
  
His scent comletely saturates my senses. I think I'm going to pass out.  
  
I said no more, no more, I can't love you anymore. . .   
  
"Buttercup," he whispers, voice rich and deep and husky-coarse, and I set my jaw no more no more--  
  
He breathes a faint, tiny little sigh, lets his eyes drift off to the side, and idly scrapes the mattress with one hand. His hair glistens with beads of water, not fully dry yet. A few hang precariously off the tips of his bangs, faintly soaking the sheets with dewdrop sized lakes when they can no longer hold on. I watch one particular bead clinging to a strand of hair just above his right eye, and even though I feel it coming, when it breaks off, plummets downward, and crashes onto my wrist, my arm involuntarily twitches.  
  
At that Butch's eyes flicker back to me, his gaze brushing over the drop of water on my skin. He lifts a corner of the bed sheet and touches it to the waterdrop, soaking the tiny white right-angled edge of the cloth. He drops it then, and pulls back a bit, hesitates, then leans forward, resting his head on his folded arms.  
  
He is driving me absolutely CRAZY.  
  
'What do you want?' I want to whisper, want to ask, but I give up don't want you don't need you CHRIST my head won't stop POUNDING--  
  
He exhales slowly, and a fresh, cool puff of what smells like Mentadent settles on my heated face. He unwraps his arms and reaches a hand towards my cheek and I almost shiver with anticipation of one touch, one graze, one brush of his skin on mine--  
  
I grit my teeth and roll over, turning to face the wall and bumping his hand away with my shoulder.   
  
I hear him inhale sharply and try to think nothing of it.  
  
It never meant anything before. Why should it mean anything now?  
  
I open my eyes a bit more and can faintly trace the outlines of our shadows on the wall. He straightens, and pauses a long while, and I can feel his pretty bright green eyes boring into the nape of my neck. I clench the pillowcase and rub the fabric in my hand.  
  
Suddenly he leans and presses his lips to my shoulder, and my entire body goes rigid.  
  
My stomach almost unbearably turns and a lump worms its way into my throat.  
  
DON'T DO THIS.  
  
"When Butch asks you," he whispers, his lips barely grazing my skin, "one last time if you want him to stay--"  
  
He breaks off, pauses. He takes a deep breath before continuing.  
  
"Tell him. . . tell ME yes."  
  
An unbelievably cold wave of numbness floods my body.  
  
"Please, Buttercup?"  
  
Why. . . why should I say yes?  
  
For you?  
  
I bite my lip--hard--as I watch his shadow fade away and hear him shuffle towards the door.  
  
Why you. . . why now?  
  
Of all the times. . .   
  
I don't get it. . .   
  
What difference does it make now?  
  
I squinch my eyes shut and ignore the rusty taste of blood in my mouth I don't care don't care DON'T CARE.  
  
Why now?  
  
Because you'll miss me? Because you're sorry?! Because you feel some weird twisted sense of regret for kissing me a second time and not having that wretched 'friends made me do it' excuse to use again?!  
  
GodDAMMIT!!!  
  
I'm sick of waiting for you, of all that stupid pointless wishing, shit, I'm just tired of being your God damn FRIEND.  
  
I don't care if you leave, go, just go, and give me a chance to FORGET ABOUT YOU ALREADY--  
  
The second the front door to the dorm clicks shut my stomach lurches and I whip out of bed to heave my insides into the toilet.  
  
***  
  
After brushing my teeth I splash pools of cold water onto my face again and again, trying to cool down. My head still pounds, my stomach's still turning, and my knees now are wobbling like crazy; it's all I can do just to keep on my feet.   
  
I rest my hands on the sink's edges and groan, my head turned towards the basin. "Jesus," I whisper. "I am NEVER drinking again."  
  
"Heh. I tell myself that every time."  
  
I straighten and direct my gaze to the mirror.  
  
Behind my pale, sickly looking reflection is Butch, an apologetic smile on his face.  
  
Casually leaning on the door frame.  
  
Gorgeous.  
  
Per usual.  
  
I whip around to face him a bit too fast. My knees buckle and I have to grab onto the sink for support to keep from fainting. Butch instantly steps forward, arms ready to catch me--  
  
"NO!" I order, louder than I mean to.  
  
My voice catches Butch by surprise, too, and he jumps a bit, but he obediently complies and stands still, watching me. I take a few deep, ragged breaths, then lift my head again.  
  
"What do you want?" I ask coldly.  
  
His mouth drops and his brow furrows, ovbiously taken aback. He swallows thickly. "G-Good morning."  
  
"What's so good about it?" I immediately shoot back.  
  
He draws in a sharp breath and shakily exhales and don't care Buttercup don't care--  
  
I grit my teeth and move to shove past him--  
  
He slams his fist against the door frame, stopping me. "Wait. . . Buttercup," he says a bit urgently, and I lift my head to face him again, my expression cold and dead.  
  
'You've never had anything to say to me before.'  
  
'Why should I start listening now?'  
  
"Listen, Buttercup," he starts off, and hesitates. We remain motionless for a long time. Finally he takes a deep breath and says, "I want to apologize for. . . for what happened last night." He lowers his head, unwilling--or is it unable?--to face me. "I'm sorry."  
  
My body tenses. However, my smart mouth has seemed to have grown a mind of its own. "Sorry that two complete strangers touched me, or sorry that we touched each other?"  
  
Snap.  
  
That's what his head does.  
  
Snaps up to mine.  
  
His eyes are wide and his fist clenches the frame of the door tightly. His head drops from mine and he looks hastily around the room, looking so incredibly ashamed I almost wish I hadn't said that. . .  
  
Almost.  
  
"Shit," he hisses under his breath.  
  
"If you're done wasting my time," I say quietly, "I'd like to go change."  
  
"No, Buttercup!" he half-shouts, head whipping back to me. "I'm sorry. . . for doing. . . what I did. . . last night."  
  
His eyes avoid looking at me, something I find absolutely infuriating.  
  
"I was. . . drunk, I guess. . . and I lost it. . . but you were drunk too, and I shouldn't have. . . shouldn't have tried to take advantage of that. . . of you." He presses his lips together and finally looks at me again. Almos instantly his expression becomes one of concern. "Why is your lip bleeding?"  
  
I touch a hand to my lower lip and examine it, a faint smear of red on my skin. I run my tongue over my lips and wipe my hand on my jeans. "I guess I bit my lip a little too hard this morning." My eyes half-closed, I look up at him. "Not that it ought to matter to you much anyway."  
  
"Don't say that," he says sharply, leaning in towards me. His face immediately softens. "I. . . Buttercup. . . I'm sorry for Sunday night. You know you're the most important person to me ever and I--"  
  
I DON'T want to talk about this--  
  
"Enough," I whisper, and start to duck under his arm--  
  
"BUTTERCUP!!!"  
  
His hands fly to my shoulders and yank me back in front of him, his breathing uneasy and striated. "We need--*I* need to talk to you--no, Buttercup," he pleads as I start to lower my head, "look at me, please, come on, Buttercup, Buttercup, look at me, GODDAMMIT BUTTERCUP LOOK AT ME!!!"  
  
He sweeps his head down and presses his forehead to mine, bringing it up with his hands still on my shoulder. "Look--at--me," he hisses, his forehead still pressed to mine. "i have something I need to tell you. . . "  
  
My eyes flicker to his hands on my shoulders, his head touching mine. "Well," I whisper, interrupting, "this is familiar, isn't it?"  
  
His eyes widen again, and he pulls away, dropping his hands to his sides. I stand still, lifting a hand to rub at my shoulder.  
  
"I'm. . . sorry," he says quietly. "But. . . Buttercup. . . last night. . . I never got the  
chnace to tell you. . . I tried to say to you. . . "  
  
If he keeps looking at my face for inspiration there's no way in hell he could possibly be getting anything out of my dead expression.  
  
He clenches and unclenches his hands, and says, "Buttercup, for. . .the longest time now, I. . . I was. . . I've been. . . I--"  
  
Knock knock! "Butch? Buttercup? Anybody home?"  
  
Kendall.  
  
Butch blinks in surprise, the unspoken words hanging off the tip of his tongue.  
  
I force a thin smile and nod to him once, curtly. "And that would be your girlfriend."  
  
His expression falls and he stares at me, a tinge of sadness in his eyes.  
  
But I'm probably just imagining things.  
  
This sort of thing takes time, anyway. . . doesn't it?  
  
I give up on you.  
  
I zip past him to answer the door, and he doesn't bother trying to stop me as I brush past him. On my way to the door I notice the pile of photos has been gathered into its box again.  
  
"Morning Kendall," I chirp as I open the door and stand aside to let her in.  
  
She smiles. "Morning--" Her eyes flicker to the suitcase by the door, and she blinks, as if she's surprised to see it there. ". . . Buttercup." She clears her throat. "Um, Butch, you're. . . ready?"  
  
He's still standing in the bathroom doorway, head lowered. At the sound of her voice he turns, though, and steps into the main room. "Yeah. . . I guess I am." He doesn't bother with a smile, only lifts his head and stares at me again, as if waiting for me to say something like "No" or "Stay."  
  
Hmp. Yeah, right.  
  
Kendall looks between me and Butch, eyebrows knitted in what I take to be a look of concern. "W-well, then, if you're ready--"  
  
"I guess I'll see you guys after summer's over, then," I say with a smile. Their heads turn to me. "Have fun."  
  
Butch opens his mouth. "But--"  
  
"Wait," Kendall interrupts. "Weren't you coming with us to the airport? I-I mean, I'd really been looking forward to spending at least a little more time with you before I left. I mean, before WE left. . . "  
  
A million excuses come to mind. I have work to do. I have people to call. I have to shower. I have to go buy a cat. I have to make dinner. I have to write my Christmas cards. I have to go to the bathroom. I have to get over your boyfriend who I've dreamt about, fantasized about, and been in love with for the past 10+ years.  
  
Sure.   
  
Those'll work REAL well.  
  
"Just. . . gve me a minute to get ready."  
  
***  
  
A minute later I step out of the bathroom. "Well, looks like we oughtta get going," I remark to Kendall & Butch--  
  
--but only Butch is in the room.  
  
He clears his throat. "Kendall's outside already with the luggage.  
  
I shrug. "Whatever." I fly over to the door and start to tug on my sneakers.  
  
He draws in a deep breath. "Buttercup--"  
  
"Let's get going."  
  
He hesitates as my hand reaches for the door. "Butter--"  
  
"Do you have something to say to me?" I ask, not looking at him as I swing the door wide open. My voice laces itself with ice. "Because I have nothing to say to you."  
  
I can hear his breath catch in his throat.  
  
Neither of us moves for the longest time. One of us should say something.  
  
I don't love you anymore.  
  
I could tell him that.  
  
But would it be the truth, or would it be a lie?  
  
What would it mean to him anyway?  
  
He sighs. "Forget it," he whispers hoarsely, averting his gaze. "Let's just go."  
  
***  
  
It's uncanny how quiet the entire thing is. Nobody says a word in the car. Nobody says a word when we arrive at the airport. Nobody says a word as the luggage is check in, nor when we go through security checks.  
  
The disrupter of peace I am, I quip, "Gate 15," and bound off in said direction, Butch & Kendall lagging behind me. I figure the quicker I get this over with the less likely I'll be to burst into tears when I get home.  
  
"Did you & Buttercup. . . have a fight?" I hear Kendall whisper, and my brisk pace slows ever so slightly.  
  
Butch waits before he can come up with a response. "You could say that," he says quietly.  
  
Dammit.  
  
The quicker the better, the quicker the better, the quicker the better. . .   
  
I whirl around, a totally fake, meaningless smile plastered onto my face and spread my arms wide. "Gate 15. Here we are."  
  
Kendall manages a kind smile, but Butch only stares at me, the same way he's been staring at me all morning, and my throat hurts all of a sudden and my legs feel weak but dammit Buttercup smile anyway and say "Good-bye. . . "  
  
"Looks like they're boarding business class right now. You're just in time," I remark, still cheerfully masking the effort I'm making to get this done & over with. . .   
  
The quicker you leave the quicker it'll be to get over you.  
  
At least that's what I keep telling myself.  
  
Go already, go, go, GO--  
  
"I guess that's it for this term," Kendall says softly, and opens her arms. "I'll see you when classes start up again, then, Buttercup."  
  
I don't think that far ahead, I consider saying, but only smile and hug her. "Sure thing."  
  
"Now boarding business class. . . " the PA system blares, and Kendall lets go. She gazes at me a long time before smiling again and turning to Butch expectantly.  
  
Smile. Doesn't matter if it hurts your mouth, makes you feel stupid, or tears at your chest just do it do it DO IT get it over with and leave leave LEAVE--  
  
He parts his mouth halfway to speak to me but no sound comes out, only empty air and silence.  
  
I can feel my lip twitching from smiling so God damn long say it Butch SAY IT so I can go home and be alone. . .   
  
Suddenly he shakes his head and turns to Kendall, saying, "Could I talk to Buttercup just five minutes?"  
  
I can feel the grin dropping from my face.  
  
Kendall smiles and nods and brushes her hand against his before turning and walking oh shit I can't stay here I can't I can't I need to go I need to leave right now or else--  
  
My vision goes cloudy and I whip around and walk briskly to the exit go go GO hurry before you break shatter spill crash--  
  
"Buttercup. . . Buttercup wait!"  
  
Oh GOD hurry up Buttercup!!!  
  
I don't know what the hell is wrong with my walking but I hear his footsteps and he reaches me and it's like I haven't budged five inches and I feel his hand reaching for mine and the split second before he touches me I snap my hand against his and whirl to face him, the light catching in the crystal dewdrops shimmering from my eyes.  
  
SHIT.  
  
In public, too.  
  
But worst of all in front of him, HIM, because I know he'll see me like this and get hurt and tell me things like I care about you so much but don't say that because it makes it harder HARDER to let go to say goodbye--  
  
"Oh, Christ, Buttercup," he cringes, taking a step back. "You--"  
  
"Hurry up and get this over with," I snarl, so incredibly thankful the airport's emptier than usual this particular Monday morning so the rest of the world won't have to see Buttercup break down and cry. . . "I was hoping to at least get out of here and away from you before I fell apart, you know." I have to grit my teeth when I talk because just looking at him with that God damn horribly apologetic pained look on his face makes me want to scream and hit him and get it all out of my system you never fight me anymore why don't you go ahead and fight me instead of just standing there and staring you bloody IDIOT?!?!  
  
"I can't leave you like this," he whispers, shaking his head and never taking his eyes off me. "I can't. . . LEAVE like this."  
  
And I already know what's going to happen.  
  
He'll ask me, one last time, if I want him to stay. I'll tell him no when I mean yes, but I can't say yes because I don't tie him down I don't rule his life. We'll go back and forth for awhile, and finally he'll hug me and say I'm always first in his life, that my feelings come before everybody else's.  
  
And then he'll leave on a plane bound for Long Island with Kendall.  
  
And then it's just me.  
  
Me all alone.  
  
"It doesn't MATTER," I hiss at him, teeth still clenched. "You go and leave me here for a week or a month or a year and really it doesn't matter--"  
  
"Don't SAY THAT!!!!" he snaps, stamping his foot on the ground like he's 3 instead of 22 and my next words are swallowed lost in my throat God can't I just go home and sleep?  
  
He glares at me, taking deep breaths and his mouth slightly parted, shaking his head. "You have no idea. . . NO idea. . . you just don't GET IT."  
  
Rage surges throught my body just as his face softens and he quietly says, "I'm not gonna leave you to cry by yourself if I'm not here--"  
  
"But I don't WANT you here." I sound like such a whiny little bitch. "I just want you to leave, to go, just--"  
  
"Is that what you want?" he asks softly.  
  
For a split-second I hesitate to answer, and that's all he needs.  
  
His hands swing up to my face and grasp my chin, and he whispers, "Say the word and I'll stay, I'll never leave your side--"  
  
He catches himself and pauses.  
  
My heart has stopped.  
  
What. . . do you mean?  
  
He gulps and repeats, "Say the word and I'll stay here with you and then we can go home and if you want we'll just sit around and I can hold you while you cry. You know? And when you're done when you feel better when I can make you smile finally we can do all the other stupid things we like to do like make fun of people at the mall or prank calls to my brothers and your sisters while they're working or rent a really awful movie and just have a bad movie night or something, okay? Okay? I could stay and we could do that, I can stay with you as long as you want, just say the word, one word, one word. . . "  
  
He shakes his head and presses his forehead to mine I don't get it what are you saying stay stay STAY?  
  
"You're too--TOO important to me, Buttercup," he whispers fiercely, "and I'm not going to leave with both of us upset and mad and ready to cry or something. . . you're just too important for that, and I just. . . I'll die before that happens, I'm not going to let that happen if I leave. . . "  
  
I'm breaking.  
  
Oh, God, if he stayed, stayed, stayed. . .  
  
. . . but. . .   
  
"What about Kendall?" I murmur, and I feel his muscles tense.   
  
"What about Kendall?" he whispers.  
  
"What about her? Kendall. . . isn't she. . . isn't she important?"  
  
An eternity passes before Butch's arms slide down around my shoulders and hug me to him, my cheek pressed to his.  
  
"Kendall. . . is important," he says carefully, and his grip on me tightens.  
  
"But not as important as you."  
  
Oh, SHIT.  
  
I'm going to be swallowed up by the earth any minute now, it feels.  
  
I've stopped crying but dammit it could start up again just like that--  
  
"Tell me," Butch mumbles, and his hold on me tightens even more, "what do you WANT?"  
  
Broken.  
  
I want to be the Other Girl.  
  
I could change fate.  
  
I could tell him yes, stay, and he wouldn't leave, would he?  
  
No, he wouldn't.  
  
He doesn't break promises. He's not like that.  
  
I want to be the Other Girl.  
  
But. . .  
  
. . . what am I setting myself up for if I say "stay?"  
  
Another ten years of friendship?  
  
Only. . . friendship?  
  
Another miserable decade of my life spent wanting what he could never possibly give me?  
  
I stopped looking for hints already. I've always taken things for more than what they mean.  
  
And what he's saying right now, what he means. . .   
  
. . . probably means less than what I'd like it to.  
  
"Leave."  
  
My voice is barely below a whisper.  
  
I can't tell whether Butch is surprised or not. ". . . 'Leave?' Is that. . . what you WANT?"  
  
I nod my head once, swallow. Flames are dancing behind my eyes right now. "Yes. I want you--" I clear my throat. "Oh, God, just. . . yeah, I want you to go. You. . . have to." You can't, you can't, CANNOT stay. . .  
  
"No I don't," he whispers, but I just shake my head you have to you have to.  
  
He doesn't let go for a long time. "Will you be okay, Buttercup?"  
  
No. Of course not.  
  
"Ye--"  
  
I can't say it. I only bite my lip and nod, blinking furiously to keep from shattering.  
  
". . . Really?" He pulls away just enough to keep his arms around my waist and looks at me, concern all but evident. "Will you really?"  
  
And I can't even bring myself to nod this time.  
  
He lifts one hand to my cheek and caresses it, smoothing away strands of my hair. "You know, Buttercup. . . I'm sorry."  
  
I only blink.  
  
"I'm. . . really sorry. I've just. . . just been screwing things up forever, you know? Ever since. . . " He trails off, and his eyelids grow heavy, half-closing. Those eyes, those gorgeous bright green eyes I love. . . LOVED so much wander from my face to the floor.  
  
". . . since 7th grade. . . "  
  
7th grade.   
  
"I-I kept trying. . . trying to tell you last night. . . "  
  
Last. . . night.  
  
He shakes his head, slowly, slowly, and finally looks at me again.  
  
"Buttercup," he whispers softly, "I. . . "  
  
What are you trying to say? Why is everything so quiet? Why is your hand on my cheek, your eyes half-shut, your face nearing mine. . .   
  
Face. . . nearing mine?  
  
And whether I act on instinct or impulse or fear I don't know but the millimeter before his lips touch me I turn. . .   
  
. . . and he presses a kiss to my cheek instead of my mouth.  
  
The silence is unnaturally loud.  
  
He slides away, pulls away, his arms falling to his sides and he steps back, once, twice.  
  
"Of course."  
  
He shakes his head and stares behind me. "You. . . you wouldn't. . . "  
  
Sigh. "Of course," he whispers again, eyes returning to me. "Of. . . course."  
  
"Good-bye, Butch," I say, my voice uncharacteristically soft and quiet.  
  
The words touch him; he inhales and shuts his eyes.  
  
What does it matter?  
  
His eyes flutter open and settle on my face. "Bye. . . Buttercup."  
  
"Last call for Flight 261, boarding for Long Island. . . "  
  
He takes a step backwards.  
  
Another.  
  
Then finally he peels his eyes away and proceeds to his gate. . .   
  
If I thought my heart had been broken all those times before. . .   
  
. . . this is, what?  
  
Is it exploding?  
  
Pulsing, throbbing, caving in on itself and leaving bloody red smears all over the insides of my chest cavity? It just feels like this huge, black, empty hole inside. . .   
  
There he is, walking away. . . Buttercup why are you letting this happen?  
  
Run after him, go, like those awful cheesy old movies, just pick up your feet and fly--  
  
I take one step.  
  
Then I turn on it and head for the exit.  
  
I haven't gone two steps before--  
  
"Buttercup!"  
  
I turn slowly.  
  
There he is, standing at the terminal, smiling like he usually does, eyes bright and face lit.  
  
'I wonder. . . '  
  
"You've got really pretty legs."  
  
'. . .if he would think I have pretty legs, the way I think he has pretty eyes.'  
  
I remain there, gazing at his face all a-grin, never moving.  
  
Never smiling, either.  
  
And then. . .  
  
. . . finally. . .   
  
. . . I turn and leave.  
  
"Good-bye, Butch," I mutter to myself as I walk out into the sun, tilting my head down so the rest of the world won't see the twinkling diamonds streaming down my face.  
  
***  
  
So I walk back to his Mustang, pull his keys from my pocket. I've got his car for the time he's gone, and while I'm still getting the hang of driving stick shift, I'm not completely incapable of getting myself around.  
  
His car always looks polished, clean, perfect. Perfect like him. I take a deep breath and unlock the car, brushing my hand across the plush tan 70's type upholstery before I sit down and God the entire car is filled with him, his rubber bands around the drive stick, his junk mail in the pockets of the car, his loose change jangling in the cupholder--  
  
I jump out twice as fast as I got in. I can't do this, not right now, I can't. I shut the door and lock the car, tuck his keys in my jeans pocket again and walk briskly somewhere anywhere until I get back to the airport entrance and flag down a cab.   
  
Ever notice how cab drivers always have nothing but consonants in their last name? It's uncanny. I don't bother trying to pronounce 'em anymore, but a quick glance at their card always reinforces the stereotype.   
  
"Where to, Miss?" he asks in an unplaceable accent, and I mutter something about how nothing ever works the way I want to how I always go and screw things up and instead of accepting other people's apologies and instead of talking I just get pissed off and run away and cry because I can't punch him I can't fight him because I love him and why didn't he ever understand that and what am I missing and why the hell won't my damn seat belt buckle oh there it goes I'm such a bloody idiot.  
  
"Oh, that's offa 180, isn't it?" he affirms, and before I can reply, which I don't really want to do anyway, he pulls out and we're off somewhere anywhere and I curl my legs up under me and rest my head against the sun-warmed window.  
  
***  
  
And I end up back at the mall.  
  
I wasn't paying attention when he pulled up, just handed him the money, undid my seat belt and got out. And when I looked up and realized where he'd taken me it was too late he'd driven off already and I could've flown home could've run after him and told him no I didn't want to come back but here I am instead dodging crowds of people walking against traffic with my hands stuffed in my pockets no where to go no one to see what am I doing back anyway?  
  
A familiar smell suddenly overwhelms me, and I lift up my head and find myself in front of the Bath & Body Works Store. And I would walk away turn away but all of a sudden an employee standing around inside the store spots me and approaches me, and I don't have the common sense to turn and flee.   
  
"Hey! I remember you! You were here just yesterday with your boyfriend, right?"  
  
I blink. ". . . what. . . ?"  
  
"I found what you were looking for last night after you left. Hold tight and let me get it for you, okay?"  
  
Before I can respond she disappears into the depths of the store, and it isn't till roughly another five seconds I remember who she is: that clerk from yesterday. . . Michelle, was it? What the hell is she--  
  
"Here you are. Honeydew Pearberry Star Fruit Kiwi Passion Delight Splash. Can you believe it? It's our last bottle. You got lucky."  
  
I stare, disbelieving, at the pinkish-orange tinted bottle she places in my hands. 'Honeydew Pearberry Star Fruit Kiwi Passion Delight Splash,' reads the label above a picture of what looks like a bowl of random fruit. Is that what a 'Star Fruit' looks like?  
  
"Just come with me and I'll ring you up," Michelle chirps, and walks back to the register. I dumbly follow her into the store, still staring at the bottle in my grasp.   
  
The. . . possibility that this exists. . . COULD'VE existed. . .   
  
. . . it's just too weird.  
  
But weirder still. . .   
  
We reach the register. I lift my head, meet her smile. And the next words out of my mouth:  
  
"How much?"  
  
***  
  
It doesn't smell that bad. It's not too strong, or overpowering; it's really light and barely detectable and sweeter than I thought it would be. It's really not that bad. I could keep this, get used to this, I guess, I never could've imagined it would--  
  
I halt mid-stride. . .   
  
. . . and scowl.  
  
I'm a freaking lunatic.  
  
This is ridiculous, me making some big deal over a scented bottle of pink water.  
  
I toss it in the garbage.  
  
I don't know why I do that; I could just turn around, get my money back, but it seems that throwing it away holds a deeper significance than just returning it.   
  
Maybe I don't want anyone else to have it.  
  
I wipe my hands against the front of my t-shirt and catch my reflection in the nearby store window. I look. . . I can't place the expression. I'm scowling, yeah, but there's something else there I can't quite place something deadened and sad and before I can think of it more I notice right between my eyes in the store window is a pendant of jade and I realize I'm standing in front of an asian jewelry shop.   
  
My necklace suddenly throbs against my skin. I lift a hand and stroke the feather light chain, mindlessly trudging into the store and standing at the glass counter. I gaze at the tiny gold charms beneath the surface, some in the shape of elephants, more jade, intricate goldworks of asian characters sparkling in the light. With a slight tug the necklace falls up and over my shirt, and as I lift my other hand and undo the clasp it drops onto the counter so smooth and quick it seems to disintegrate in the air.  
  
A young lady appears at the counter, her small, brown almond eyes suspicious yet inquisitive all the same at the prospect of a customer.  
  
"Yes?" she queries, with just a trace of an asian accent, "can I help you?"  
  
I really don't know what I'm doing there. I don't know what to say. But my voice acts on its own once again.  
  
"A. . . friend of mine. . . purchased a necklace for me yesterday. I was wondering. . . wondering what it meant. I mean," and I glance at the trinkets beneath the clear, heavy glass, "most of these have some sort of meaning to them, don't they?"  
  
She doesn't seem to actually pick the chain up; her hand appears to summon it, and the golden thread weaves itself in over between her long, manicured nails, the pendant coincidentally resting just so in her palm. Her other hand drums the glass, her nails clicking loudly against it. The almond eyes become slits as she shrewdly examines the article of jewelry.  
  
And suddenly she smiles.  
  
"Oh, yes," she says, nodding, and leans so her elbows rest on the counter, uncharacteristic of the sharp, prim posture she held when she first arrived. Her accent seems to thicken, too. "This piece." The almonds fly to me. "What you want to know?"  
  
I pause. I stare at the back of her hand, concealing the jade ring and its gold character.   
  
What do I want to know?  
  
"Everything," I whisper.  
  
She shifts a bit, turning her hand so she can show me the pendant. "Well, first, this character--" and she indicates the word within the ring "--is Chinese word *ai*. Means love."  
  
It feels like a bullet has just blown through my chest. Love? I mouth the word and slowly shake my head. Not the love he means, it can't be--  
  
"The gold means it pure--it's true." The almonds glance at me to make sure I'm paying attention.  
  
I feel pale, weightless.  
  
"The jade here--green jade--is very dark, very deep green color. The darker the color, the stronger it is, the more power it have. This jade very dark, so means the feeling, maybe, is very strong, very powerful."  
  
I wince at the word "feeling." I don't get this--  
  
"Now this is funny," she continues, and traces the jade ring with a finger, "in addition to the feeling, the purity, the strength, the ring is circle-shape, no corners. Means no end, it keeps on going. Go for long time. So. . . mean love doesn't end. Not so funny, really, I mean funny interesting. . . "  
  
. . . what is this. I stare at the pendant, etch its gold and green and shape with my eyes this can't possibly mean where has my heart gone and why has it stopped beating--  
  
"As for the chain. . . " She hesitates, and gazes off into the distance, seeming to recall a past event. She looks at the chain again, her eyebrows knitting in thought. "This. . . is interesting too. Your friend. . . he take a long time thinking about what chain he wanted. I show him this chain and another, much heavier chain. I say heavy is better, because won't break as easy. This one--it very light, very fragile, easy to break. But he think about it, and then he say he want this one."  
  
She rubs the chain between her thumb and forefinger. Her accent starts to disappear. "I think. . . maybe because this chain is very fragile, maybe he say--or mean to say, I don't know if he knew what he want to say--say that the feeling is very delicate, perhaps."  
  
I don't understand, why--  
  
The manicured fingers lift the chain around my neck and redo the clasp. "Guys are funny," she remarks, and strokes the chain. "Maybe he's trying to say something like the chain is his heart, and it's very fragile, easy to be broken, but he give it to you anyway because. . . he trusts you, maybe?" All of a sudden she giggles and takes her hand away. "Oh, that sounds like a bad movie line or something. I don't think men are so complicated anyway." The almonds flicker to me. "He say anything to you?"  
  
***'I have something to tell you. . . '***  
  
My eyes drift around, not knowing where to look, not knowing what to say or how to say it. "I. . . I don't know." I shake my head. "I don't. . . don't know."  
  
He did say something to me. . .   
  
. . . didn't he?  
  
The lady shrugs. "Well, anyway--you want a jade bracelet to go with the necklace?"  
  
But I don't hear her. Butch's unspoken words echo in my head, but how am I so sure those were the words he meant to say, the words he wanted to say?  
  
The possibility. . . that it existed. . . that he. . . he. . .   
  
My vision goes cloudy for the umpteenth time that day. My joints go numb, my heartbeat echoes in my empty body.  
  
And something about it all makes me wanna run outside and rummage through the garbage for that God damn bottle.  
  
*sunday evening now over*  
  
  
  
yes, folks, sunday evening is indeed over. anyone catch the heavy, blatant symbolism at the end? wow it was kinda bad. oh well, it works.   
  
kudos to the person who originally said back when butch first gave buttercup the necklace that maybe the word inside meant 'love' or something. i wanted to say something like 'you got it!' at the time but that would've ruined the impact here at the end for the rest of the audience.  
  
thanks again for all the reviews and comments and e-mails. made me happy to read ^^ and while they didn't always motivate me to write they ALWAYS cheered me up. . . even if they weren't always that flattering ^^; i still can't believe i broke 100 when i did. . . back 2 chaps ago, was it? i think it was with my epic chapter. . . yeah it was. wow i love you guys. really. thanks. i'm glad so many people read this and liked it; i guess i have reason to be proud of it for something.   
  
. . . that was a bad sentence. scratch that. but 100 reviews is a lot, really it is. it still amazes me O_O  
  
there is an epilogue coming up. this WAS the original ending (sorta; i've reworked this ending about 5 different times already, and that was WAY back when i hadn't even completed the first chapter yet. just fyi, i knew where i was going the whole time, as opposed to some writers who just start and see where they end up. maybe i'll try that one of these days.  
  
but i have to write an epilogue. it seems it's going to be split into 2 parts (of course, 'skirt' was originally supposed to be only TWO also. . . ahem), at least i hope. so see you there.  
  
-jen  
  
upcoming epilogue title: "best kept secret" 


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